Two Hearts
by ravenscaronff
Summary: John and Sherlock meet in University. This is a short story about two young men who realise they are destined to be more than just friends. There's a bit of angst, lots of dialogue and lots of love.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

'Hey! Hey mate, are you alright?' John Watson asked the man lying crumpled on the University grounds. All he could see was a curly head and a long slender body curled into itself.

'I'll be alright. Leave me alone', the injured man snarled. He tried to lift himself up and collapsed on his back with a pained grimace marring his features.

'Riiight. Of course. You'll be alright. Shut up and let me help you' John growled. 'Mind if I feel around for broken bones?'

'Are you a _doctor_?' the supine man's cocked eyebrow underscored the thick sarcasm in his tone.

'Not yet, but I soon will be. I'm John Watson, by the way', he said while he began to skillfully palpate the other man's ribs. 'Nothing seems broken, that's good', he nodded, lifting the other man's t-shirt. 'But you're beginning to bruise badly. Ribs, chest, shoulder', he itemised briskly and raised his eyes to the man's face. 'Jaws', he added, ghosting his fingers over a smooth, pale jawline that was turning an angry crimson. 'It will be a week or two before these fade away. Who the _hell_ did this to you and why?'

'Not your concern.'

'Alright, don't tell me but let me at least get you to the nurse's office. Here, put your arm around my shoulder.'

The other man lifted an aching arm and winced when John pressed into his body and wrapped an arm around his waist to help him to his feet.

'That's it, lean on me. Good, good, there's no rush.'

The two men hobbled to the nurse's office.

'What's your name?' John asked his companion.

'Not your concern.'

'Oh?'

'We won't be communicating after this. We have nothing in common. There's no need to exchange names. Or even pleasantries.'

'You're a real jerk, you know. I'm trying to help you. I was just being friendly.'

'I don't have friends.'

'Yeah, I wonder why. Must be your sunny personality. Anyway, we're here. I'll leave you in the capable hands of the nurse. Take care, alright? Try to stay out of trouble. Yeah. I'll be off.'

* * *

The next day John Watson sat in Anatomy class and listened to the professor drone on about muscle groups, tendons and bones. At some point, the professor's face morphed into another man's, young, thin and almost colourless. Pale, he corrected himself. Dark curls framed angular features, unique in their arrangement. So very…what's the word he's looking for? So very _exquisite_. And that flashing gaze from under heavy-lidded eyes, limpid yet veiled. Dangerous in its intensity. John swallowed abruptly, choking on his saliva. Did he just call a _man_ exquisite and spend thirty seconds recalling a man's eyes? Had Harry rubbed off on him? His lesbian sister was always insinuating that John might be gay or bisexual at least. He always brushed her off and dove into the heterosexual dating pool with even greater gusto. What was he trying to prove, he wondered, and to whom?

The class ended and he was walking back to his dorm room when Brian Simpson from the rugby team lumbered over to him.

'Hey Watson, what were you doing with that faggot?'

'What are you talking about, Simpson?'

'That skinny fucker you took to the nurse's office yesterday.'

'What of him?'

'Scumbags like that don't belong here, get it? Stay away from him.'

'Or what, you _worm_? Are you going to beat me up like you did him?'

'I might, if you don't stay out of my business.'

'Care to put your money where your mouth is?'

'Fuck you, Watson. I'll pulverite you.'

'It's pulverise, you imbecile! Pick up a dictionary once in a while!' John sneered. 'Aah!' he cried when Simpson's fist smashed into his jaw.

'You fucking bigot', he growled and launched all of his five foot six frame at Simpson, slamming his shoulder into the thug's solar plexus and sending him crashing to the ground. He sprang onto Simpson, landing on his chest and sat there, raining blows on his jaws and shoulders and arms and ribs, not caring that he was getting an equal pounding, until Simpson thumped the ground in surrender. 'Stop, you fucking madman! Weirdo! Why the fuck are you getting all riled up for someone like that?'

John lifted himself off Simpson and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. It came away wet and red.

'You leave him alone, you get it? You leave him alone or I will _hurt_ you, Simpson. Go pick on someone who can fight back, you fucking savage.'

A tall thin student with dark curly hair watched the fracas from a distance.

* * *

The next day, John sat in Patient Care class when his mobile phone chimed with a text message. He pulled out the phone and stared at the unfamiliar number. The text message said _'Thank you. SH.'_

_Who the fuck is SH? Oh well, whoever you are, SH, you're welcome I suppose. Hmm…who would thank me? Oh!  
_  
He quickly texted a reply. _'You're welcome. What's your name? JW.'_

His phone chimed again. _'Not your concern. SH'_.

Fuck you, SH, he thought and texted _'In that case, piss off. JW.'_

_'Did Simpson hurt you badly? SH.'_

_'I'll live. JW.'_

* * *

The week passed uneventfully and John found himself in class, Pathology this time, when his phone chimed. He recognised the number and sighed as he accessed the message.

_'Are you in Pathology class to learn or to ogle Sarah Sawyer breasts? SH.'_

_'How did you get my number? JW.'_

_'Don't be boring. Ask me something intelligent. Or just answer my question. SH.'_

_'As someone who would meet your standards of intelligence once told me, "not your concern". JW.'_

_'Touché, but you might as well answer. SH.'_

_'Piss off, SH. JW.'_

Three days later he was at a club with Janine when he received another text message. _'It's Janine now, is it? Didn't Sarah put out? SH.'_

_'Are you stalking me? JW.'_

_'I'm trying to understand why you spend your time with vacuous women. You seemed smarter than that. SH.'_

_'As I said before, piss off. Really. JW.'_

The next week passed uneventfully. John checked his phone for text messages from a specific number more often than he would admit to himself. Nine days later, John received a text from that number. _'Sherlock Holmes. SH.'_ He did not respond.

* * *

John was in a restaurant on a dinner date with Jeanette when he received another text. _'Don't kiss her. She's showing signs of the flu. Also incipient idiocy. She cannot hold her drink. SH.'_

'Excuse me', he said to Jeanette. 'Just need to send a quick text.'

_'Are you spying on me from behind a pillar, you twat? JW.'_

_'Don't be ridiculous. I'm at the table behind your date. SH.'_

What the fuck? John leaned to the right in his chair and found himself looking at the back of a head covered with unmistakable thick, dark curls above a long neck.

'Sorry, babe, I've got to use the loo. Be back in a minute, yeah?' he said to his date loud enough for his voice to carry over the restaurant's din.

A minute later later, another man rose from the next table and walked to the loo. He pushed the door open to see John waiting for him, hands crossed over his chest.

'What the fuck are you doing, Sherlock?'

'Making sure you don't waste your time with ordinary women.'

'You're not my keeper and my dates are no business of yours. Look, I don't know what you're doing but you were in trouble, I helped you out, you thanked me and we're even. As _you_ said, we have nothing in common and we're certainly not friends. So leave me alone.'

'Do you truly want me to?'

'I truly, _absolutely_ want you to.'

'You're lying.'

'No, I'm not! What the fuck is your problem?'

'My problem is that you've been asking Mike Stamford about me.'

'M-Mike? What did he tell you?'

'He didn't need to tell me anything. I know you're friends with him so I read his texts.'

'What? You've just invaded his privacy, you dick! Do you care about that at all?'

'You were trying to invade mine.'

'Fuck you. I didn't hack your phone.'

'You are interested in me.'

'Slow down there! I am not _interested_ in you. You may be gay and I respect that but _I'm _not, alright?'

'Very well, not interested in me sexually but definitely interested enough to ask your friend for my age, my family background, my courses.'

'Yeah, fine, I did. What of it?' John's chin was tilted up. It might have been audacity or the fact that Sherlock was a full six inches taller than he.

'Nothing', Sherlock pursed his lips. 'I simply wanted you to admit it.'

'Alright, I admit it. What now?'

Sherlock looked at a wall. John thought he could hear his watch ticking while he waited for Sherlock to respond. Tick – tick – tick – tick – tick – tick – tick – tick – tick. Nine seconds. An eternity. Then Sherlock looked down at the floor. 'Do you wish to be friends?' he asked John's shoes.

John looked straight ahead. 'You said yourself you don't have friends', he told Sherlock's shoulder.

'Hence my question! Are you _really_ this dull?'

'That's great, Sherlock. No doubt you're Mr. Popular with that attitude.'

'If you expect me to apologise, don't.'

'I won't.'

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'You really _are_ that dull', Sherlock's eye-roll caused John's blood to boil. ' . . .friend? I can assure you it is in your interest. I can provide the intellectual stimulation that your daft girlfriends cannot. You need that or your mental acuity will begin to diminish.'

'Why would anyone want to be your friend when you make them feel like idiots?'

'Because most people are.'

'And I'm not?'

'I have yet to assess that definitively but I believe you can be salvaged.'

'You're a pompous arse. Why the fuck should I be your friend?'

'You said that first day you were being friendly and you didn't even know me then. You know me a little better now. So?'

'I like you even _less_ now!' John's voice rose in exasperation but he noticed the slightest retraction of Sherlock's neck. He had flinched because John's reaction was unexpected. He looked closely at Sherlock and saw a shade of nervousness. Then John realised that, beneath his braggadocio, Sherlock was but a fractured young man awaiting the inevitable rejection which he had just resoundingly delivered.

'Very well', Sherlock closed his eyes in acceptance.

John thought about how newly minted Sherlock's words had sounded when he had asked John to be his friend. He was clearly not accustomed to reaching out to people but was obviously inured to rejection. John's anger evaporated.

'Hold on. I'll be your friend. Fine? Mind if I go back to my date now without your interruptions?'

'Don't bother. She's gone.'

'What? Why? You did something, didn't you?'

'I texted her, purporting to be you of course, that you had to leave for an emergency and that you'd paid the bill.'

'You bastard!'

'Well, I did pay the restaurant bill for you. _And_ left a generous tip.'

'So you're really expecting that to even things out between us?'

'Doesn't it?'

'No, it doesn't! What the hell is _wrong_ with you?'

Sherlock recoiled like he had been slapped.

'I- I don't know…'

'Hey, Sherlock, wait. Look…I'm uh-sorry.'

They stood silently looking at the floor. Finally Sherlock spoke.

'Jeanette will go out with you again if you call her. She liked you. Good night, John.'

Sherlock turned to leave. John reached out to hold his arm.

'Sherlock. Hey, I didn't mean to imply there's something wrong with you.'

'Yes, you did.'

John dropped his arm and sighed. 'Yeah, I did and _that_ was wrong. It's just that you're…'

'A freak?'

'No! Not a freak. God, no! Why would you think that?'

'Because that's what everyone says.'

'They're all fucking wrong. You're just different.'

'Because you think I'm gay?'

'No! That makes no difference to me at all! Wait, _aren't_ you gay?'

'I- I don't know.'

'You've got to know by now.'

'I don't, alright?'

'Do you notice girls?'

'Almost never. Only if they are intelligent.'

'Boys?'

'Infrequently, but yes.'

'Have you been with a boy before?'

'Not your concern!'

'Yeah, I'm sorry. I overstepped. Sorry.'

'So why else do you think I'm different?'

'Because you are! You're different…unique. You're brilliant. Mike has told me about you – how you've basically taken over teaching your Chemistry course because your professor's inept. How New Scotland Yard regularly consults you for investigations that are beyond them – you've helped them apprehend the Golem and the Northolt Garroter among others. He said you play the violin, you're the chess champ three years running, you speak six foreign languages and god knows what else!'

'That's normal.'

'That's not normal, that's _brilliant_. It's fucking extraordinary! _You're_ extraordinary. So I _really_ can't imagine why you're trying to get _my_ attention when I'm nothing like you. I don't doubt for a minute that you'll provide intellectual stimulation to me. What will _I_ provide _you_? Will you walk away when you get bored as I know you will?'

Sherlock smirked, ignoring John's questions. 'Why are you so sympathetic towards gays? Gay sibling?'

'Yeah…my sister, Harry.'

'Was she picked on at school?'

'All the time. My dad disowned her at eighteen. But even if Harry were straight, I could never condone that hate.'

John didn't catch the strange light in Sherlock's eyes because he quickly turned away.

'OK, that explains your reasons.'

'Terrific. I'm glad you understand my reasons', John snapped, 'because I'm now date-less and unfed and you are responsible. How will you make amends?'

'I'll feed you up.' Sherlock's bashful glance melted into the briefest of smiles when he saw John's slow grin. 'Dinner?'

'Starving.'

'I won't get bored and I won't walk away.'

'Yeah, yeah, we'll see.'


	2. Chapter 2

Guess who's back. Yes, it's PickyPicky! She's playing mega beta once more and has got me agonising over dotting my t's and crossing my i's. Ooops! :) So glad to have you on this story, my friend!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

If they grew inseparable over the following months it was, John insisted, only because Sherlock seemed to have attached himself to John despite his protests which, by John's own admission, were perfunctory. He sometimes felt like a short, jumper-clad branch around which a tall, gaunt koala bear had symbolically wrapped itself and now refused to let go.

John came to expect that he would be summoned by the chime of a text message which invariably issued a directive, never a request, to meet Sherlock somewhere at once. His convenience was never a consideration because Sherlock had come to expect that John would be available whenever he needed him, which was always.

_'St. Bart's mortuary. Now. Need you to examine a body. SH.'_

_'Can't. On a date. Movie finishes in 30 minutes. JW.'_

_'Access to body will be revoked in 25 minutes. Need you now. SH.'_

_'Fine! I'll be there. Git. JW.'_

John made his excuses to his date and exited the theatre, cursing his inconsiderate friend on his way to St. Bart's. When he arrived, Sherlock was hunched over the naked body of a middle-aged man, studying his face.

'This is ridiculous, Sherlock. You're always interrupting my dates!'

'Take a look at this body. Thoughts on the cause of death?'

'Fuck you. Don't dismiss my personal life like that.'

'You know you want to be here, John.'

'I'm here because you _need_ me here.'

'Isn't that what I said in my text? Now, shall we begin?'

John shot Sherlock a furious look but began his examination of the body.

* * *

Once Sherlock had wrested unrestricted access to John's time, his pervasive presence began to inexorably extend into John's residence.

'What the-?!' John exclaimed. He had opened the door to his room and found Sherlock lying on his bed with his eyes closed. 'How did you get in?'

'Picked the lock', Sherlock murmured, still not looking at John.

'You can't just break into my room, Sherlock!'

'I obviously _can_.'

'Well, you shouldn't!'

'Why not? What have you got to hide?'

'This is just not done! You're really- fuck this, I'm making tea.'

'I'll have some, thank you. Couple of biscuits, too.'

'Arse', John cursed.

Three evenings later, John unlocked the door to his room and once again found Sherlock inside, sitting at his desk.

'You've _got_ to stop doing this, Sherlock!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes deliberately, unblinking, away from the laptop monitor to look at John, giving him his withering 'don't-be-boring' look.

'Wait, is that my computer? It's password-protected!'

'Oh please, _"shakennotstirred"_? A three year old could crack that code.'

'Give me that! Where's your computer?' John demanded, snatching his laptop from the table and snapping it shut.

'In my bag', Sherlock drawled, waving an uninterested but very regal hand at his bag lying on John's bed.

'How can anyone be this fucking lazy? Keep your hands off my computer, yeah? Sherlock! Are you listening to me? Look at me. Look at me, you nutter. There are limits!'

'Calm down, John. You'll give yourself a coronary. I already know you surf porn.'

John's frown loosened and Sherlock saw outrage dissolving into mortification.

'Don't worry. It doesn't affect my opinion of you. What else could you wish to hide from me?'

John paused for a beat and then sighed. 'Nothing else, really', he said quietly. His most embarrassing proclivity had been discovered but Sherlock seemed unperturbed by it. He went to make tea. Sherlock went back to using John's computer. He stayed in John's room until midnight but they didn't speak and John didn't look at Sherlock until he stood at the door, ready to leave.

'Good night, John.'

'Good night, Sherlock.

The following day John handed Sherlock a spare key to his room.

'Stop breaking in.'

'Good. This will save me the 18 seconds it takes to pick your lock.'

'A sock on the door handle means I'm having sex. Don't come in.'

'Can't guarantee I'll remember that.'

'Arse. I'll install a bolt on the inside. And I still would like you not to use my computer. I mean it, Sherlock. We need some boundaries.'

'_You_ need boundaries. I have no secrets from you. I'll give you the password to my computer if you want.'

'How can-'

'I trust you.'

John's throat suddenly felt full. Those three casually uttered words carried the weight of their entire friendship. Knowing how guarded Sherlock was around people in general, John was strangely humbled, as though he had been entrusted with something precious that he must protect at all costs. He saw Sherlock's trust as Sherlock himself and determined to protect him. Always.

* * *

One evening, at the corner pub, they heard John's name being called and turned to see a group of John's mates from rugby huddled at a corner table waving to him.

'Hey!' he waved back and turned to Sherlock. 'Let's go say hi.'

'Maybe you should go alone', Sherlock suggested. 'I'll wait for you at the bar.'

John peered at Sherlock and read his reluctance in his eyes. 'Okay, I'll be back in a little bit.'

Sherlock watched John walk towards the corner table. The conversation seemed amiable enough but a few minutes in, voices were raised and John rose to his feet. He was livid and his voice carried over the din.

'I don't care what you say about me but you leave Sherlock out of this. You've no _fucking_ idea what he's about. He's worth a hundred of you boors. He's _beyond_ you, get it? You'll never be him. Ever!'

He marched over to Sherlock who threw a look at the corner table.

'What happened?' he asked.

'Nothing. Those fuckers are a waste of air and space.'

'They said something about me.'

'Yes. Bigoted bastards', John closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

'You stood up for me. Again.'

John shrugged.

'I'm a detriment to you, John.' He sounded wistful.

'No, you're not.'

'I'm keeping you from other people. Normal people. I'm holding you back.'

'From what? I only hung out with them because of rugby. You, on the other hand, you-. Stop this, Sherlock. It's not even a question. I will always choose you.'

Sherlock stared at John, overwhelmed by the kindness in his deep blue eyes. He found himself wanting to spend the rest of his days looking at John but tore his eyes away.

_I know you tolerate me. I know you like me, but this much? Each time I invade your privacy, each time I take you for granted, I'm trying to prove to myself and to you that you're like everyone else. That you'll ultimately turn away and leave me. And I'll be alone again. _

He turned back to John. _But you're constantly surprising. And constantly forgiving. Why are you so fiercely loyal to me? What have I done to deserve you? Do I deserve you?_

Sherlock was overcome and closed his eyes fleetingly.

'You're thinking so hard I can hear your synapses sparking. Don't let it bother you, they're not worth it, Sherlock. Let's go', John growled, grabbing Sherlock's glass and guzzling the rest of his drink. He was ready to storm out of the pub when he felt Sherlock's fingers close around his wrist.

'Come with me', he said and led John to the corner table. He looked at the foursome – Justin Crowley, Matt Farnham, Nigel Swift and Billy McDougall.

'How well do you know each other?' he asked them, still holding John's wrist.

'Fuck off, Holmes', Crowley sneered. 'We know each other well enough to know none of us would have anything to do with you. Not sure what you've done to John that he hangs around you all the time. Have you turned him gay with your charms? You must have activated the homo gene in him.'

Sherlock felt the tendons in John's wrist jump and knew he had clenched his fist. He lightly tightened his own grip, his fingers telling John _I am with you_.

'Very well', Sherlock said. His voice was level. Eerily calm. 'Let me introduce you to each other. Crowley, here, is a closet homosexual. Kathy, his girlfriend, is his beard. He has not revealed his orientation for fear his father will cut off his trust fund. Farnham got his teen girlfriend in Birmingham pregnant and when she asked him to take responsibility, he absconded and moved to London. Mr. Swift here is a racist bully. He beats up minority teenagers in his neighbourhood. McDougall has been arrested twice for selling drugs. A cowardly homosexual, an unwed teen father _and_ also a coward, a racist and a drug peddler. Paragons of virtue, indeed. The four of you are hardly in a position to judge anyone else, least of all John.'

He paused as the magnitude of this information percolated the opaque minds he was addressing. He saw the four men shoot each other guilty and condemning glances.

'John is kind. He is a _good_ man and would never willfully hurt anyone. I am not John. Say what you want about me but should you ever upset him again, I will arrange to make this information public. Evening, gentlemen', he nodded. 'John, let's go', he said and strode out of the pub. He missed the look of quiet pride on John's face.

When they were outside, John stopped him.

'Sherlock.'

'Yes?'

'You're my hero.' John's eyes shone with affection.

'I know.'

'Of course you do. Sherlock Holmes knows everything.'

'About John Watson, yes. In fact, I happen to know you're going to need new accommodations starting next month.'

'Yeah, fuck, I've got to find something. Bloody hell.'

'Move in with me.'

'What?'

'I have a nice flat on Baker Street. Two bedrooms, two baths, living room and kitchen.'

'How can you afford that? Are you rich and didn't tell me?'

'I am rich and you didn't ask.'

'Move in with you, huh?'

'Why not? Baker Street is three stations from Uni. You can come see the flat right now.'

'How much are you asking for rent?'

'I'm not asking for rent. I don't need the money.'

'Still…how much? I won't stay there for free.'

'Fine. Three hundred pounds a month.'

'That's just half of what I pay here. Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. I said I don't want any money. You want to pay me. So I'll take three hundred a month.'

'You're completely mental, you know?'

'You remind me often enough.'

* * *

John was sitting in the University courtyard, leaning against a pillar, poring over his books in preparation for his Anatomy test when his phone chimed.

_'Need you. Vauxhall Arches. SH.'_

_'Can't. Studying. Isn't it a bit early in the day to go clubbing? JW.'_

Sherlock didn't respond. John continued his studies for another three hours before he received another text.

_'There's blood. SH.'_

_'Ha ha. Did you kill someone? Studying. JW.'_

_'My blood. Please. SH.'_

_'On my way. JW.'_

John slammed his books shut, shoved them into his backpack and ran to the street to hail a taxi. He kneaded the seat hard throughout the seemingly interminable ride, cursing at every signal that slowed them down. Sherlock never said 'please'. Never. His mind supplied a myriad of worst case scenarios and he cursed again. Tossing the cabbie a big note, he flung the door open and sprang out of the cab before it had come to a full stop.

'Watch it, I don't want you dying in my cab!' the driver shouted after him.

'Sorry, and thank you!' John shouted back, running towards the many clubs situated under the arches.

_'I'm here. Where are you? JW.'_

_'Barcode. SH.'_

John quickly scanned the club fronts and saw a huge LED display proclaiming BC in ever-changing colours, fluorescent pink then green, then blue, then pink again. _Oh. _He ran in and his eyes frantically searched for his friend, his anxiety escalating with every second that he couldn't see him. Then his eyes stopped on a figure in a long coat, the collars turned up into unruly and absolutely beautiful dark curls. The man leaned over the bar and looked like he was nursing a drink. He walked to his friend as quickly as his legs would carry him.

'Sherlock', he called, placing a hand over his shoulder.

'John! You came…' Sherlock grunted as he slowly straightened his torso and turned towards John. He was pressing his hand into his abdomen, over his hip bone.

'What- what's going on, Sherlock? Let me take a look. Take your hand off, please, let me take a look.'

Sherlock gingerly pulled his hand away and it came away covered with blood. John's expression was inscrutable but Sherlock knew that he was extremely agitated. A momentary tremor in his hand was the only sign of distress but he was coldly efficient as he inspected Sherlock's wound. When he was convinced that it was a flesh wound, deep but not life threatening, concern ceded to very real anger. John fumed at him but Sherlock thought his face was so lovely, so transparent only to him. John saw Sherlock looking at him like an idiot, a small, pained smile playing on his lips.

'You idiot! Who the fuck did this to you?'

'Knife-. Poker thug', Sherlock wheezed.

'What possessed you to go after a poker thug alone?!'

'I texted you but you were studying.'

'You can't do this, Sherlock! You just can't!'

'I didn't expect this to happen and anyway, you say I always interrupt your activities.'

'Well, yeah, you do! But this is one time you _should_ have interrupted! You idiot! You could've been killed! What the fuck am I supposed to do then?'

Sherlock looked nonplussed. John closed his eyes.

'What am I supposed to do without you?'

'You'll find another friend, John', Sherlock muttered and dropped his head. 'You're nice...people like you.'

'For a genius, you can be a fucking dolt sometimes. I don't want _another _friend! I want you! If you fuck up like this again, I don't care if you're alive or dead, I swear we're through.'

'Sorry.'

'If you're really sorry, tell me you won't do this again.'

'Is it bad?'

'It's a flesh wound. Deep, but you'll live. Let's take you to the A&E.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'No. I don't want any public records of this.'

'No one's spying on you, Sherlock.'

'Maybe someone is.'

'Who?'

'An interested party, perhaps. I don't know…it's just a suspicion. I have enemies.'

'Why am I not surprised…Let's go home so I can patch you up.'

'Thank you, John.'

'Stop talking or I'll punch you.'

'But you're my friend, John.'

'Stop trying to butter me up. I'm angry with you. Very angry.'

'I know.'

'Shut up.'

'Okay.'

* * *

**A/N:**

Trust the incredible Mark Gatiss to sneak in a veiled reference to Vauxhall Arches in TGG. Also, Barcode is an actual gay club in Vauxhall which, by a happy coincidence, has a huge LED display flashing 'b c' at the entrance. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

'John', Sherlock said, standing in the middle of John's bedroom in 221 B Baker Street. 'I need to get some air. We're going out.'

'No, we're not', John countered.

'Why not?'

John sat on his bed, clacking out an email on his laptop. He had been living at Baker Street for five months and loved it. Sherlock could be a lazy git but John was happy to play the responsible flatmate. He kept the kitchen stocked with food, paid their bills, cleaned up after Sherlock's experiments and made sure his friend ate and slept. He also had to regularly assert his independence from his friend.

'Sherlock, while I genuinely enjoy every waking minute I spend with you, I cannot spend literally every waking minute with you! I have a date tonight.'

'Yes, with me.'

'I'm not going on a _date_ with you, idiot! You sometimes say the weirdest things. Do you even know what a date is?'

'I am acquainted with the concept. It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun.'

'I don't like you.'

'You like me.'

'No, I do not.'

'Fine, who's the moron this time?'

'Not moron. Her name's Anna. She's a nice girl studying to be an anthropologist.'

'Big breasts?'

'Oh, yeah!' John grinned salaciously.

'Your standards are non-existent. Should I get you an inflatable female doll? It would save you the sad pretence, not to mention the needless expense, of going out on dates.'

'I'm not just going out for the sex, you know? I like spending time with other human beings.'

'_I'm_ a human being.'

'In species only. You are quite inhuman.'

'Not to you.'

'Riiight. Not to me. You've just insulted my lack of standards. Then there's my unacceptable height, intelligence, taste in women, movies, music, books and even my bloody cooking! No, that's not inhuman at all', John dropped his head and exhaled sharply through his nose. 'I sometimes doubt you like anything about me', he added sadly.

'I like a lot of things about you', Sherlock garbled through his exaggerated pout, shuffling up to John and standing before him. 'I just don't tell you about them. It could go to your head.'

John looked up at him. 'Wouldn't hurt if you were nice to me once in a while, you know? I think I put up with you and that's why you hang around me.'

'So why do you put up with me?'

'Because I like you, you git.'

'Told you', Sherlock's lips relaxed in a smug smile.

'Yeah, fuck off now…' John smiled and pushed him away.

'In any case, I was only stating facts and thought your sense of self was healthy enough for you to face them.'

'You know nothing about human behaviour.'

'So show me.'

'Not tonight, Sherlock. I have a da-ate!' John teased in a sing-song voice as Sherlock walked away in a black mood.

* * *

Two hours later, John sat across from Anna in a restaurant. His phone chimed. Text message. The ring tone was set to a violin tune John did not recognize.

'Excuse me', he said to Anna and pulled out his phone.

_'NSY. Now. Lestrade has called us in to help with a case. SH.'  
_  
_'Lestrade calls YOU, not us. And I'm on a date, you cock. Leave me alone. JW.'  
_  
Ten seconds later, his phone chimed again.

_'Serial killings and headless bodies are infinitely more interesting than your date. SH.'_

_'For you, perhaps. But yours truly is having sex tonight! JW.'_ he typed out with a small smile.

_'I need a doctor. SH.'_

_'I'm not yet a doctor. JW.' _

'What's going on, John?' Anna prickled. 'You've somewhere else to be?'

'As a matter of fact, he does', a deep voice called out from behind her.

'Sherlock! What the- what are you doing here?'

'Oh, God, John. Did he follow you here? He's like your obsessed pet.'

'Sherlock, what is going on?'

'I told you, John! I need you. Right now!'

'He needs you? John, seriously, what's going on?'

'Hold on, Anna. Sherlock, I'm not going to Scotland Yard with you. I'm on a date!'

'You can reschedule. Serial killings, John! It's Christmas!'

Sherlock's sidelong glance caught Anna's face contorting in revulsion.

'John, my friends warned me about this weirdofollowing you around everywhere. It's true, isn't it? He's like your shadow! What a bloody _freak_!'

'Stop.' John's level tone was dangerously thick.

Anna knew immediately that she'd said the wrong thing because John Watson's face turned to stone and his eyes hardened to blue steel. And Anna was afraid.

'Sherlock is not my pet and certainly not a freak. He is my _friend_, my _best_ friend, in fact.'

John's words stunned Sherlock. His jaw clenched with grateful pride and he bit on his lower lip to staunch a most inopportune flood of sentiment.

'This fre- guy is your best friend?' Anna raised an eyebrow.

'He is… .friend', John reaffirmed, looking directly at Sherlock and holding his gaze a second longer than necessary. Then he turned to Anna. 'I see no point in us spending any more time together if you are unwilling to be civil in your references to Sherlock.'

'You're dropping me in favour of him? You're _really_ going to choose him?'

'I most certainly am', John assured her.

'In that case fuck you, John Watson. I was warned that a date with you invariably includes Sherlock Holmes. Why don't the two of you fuck each other? He's already gay. You could fuck him. Look at him, he wouldn't mind.'

'Whether or not I fuck him is not your business', John said calmly, not noticing the flicker of shock and something else altogether on Sherlock's face. 'Good night, Anna. Please leave us now', John's quiet request was menacing.

Anna turned on her heel and stormed out of the restaurant. John poured himself more wine and quaffed it in a single gulp.

'Sorry', Sherlock mumbled.

'You're not sorry', John chided, looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

'I'm not. I was saving you time. She wasn't worthy of you, John.'

'Worthy? This is not Camelot, Sherlock and I'm not some chivalrous knight. Really, the words you use.'

'Well, she wasn't.'

'According to you, no woman I've ever dated has been worthy of me. Perhaps I should date men. You might like one of them.'

Sherlock's lips twitched in distress and his brooding features became even dourer. His reaction was perplexing even to himself.

'Perhaps you should, but I doubt I'd find any of them worthy of you either.'

'I'm not that special, Sherlock', John griped, burying his face in his palms. He sounded tired. 'I just want a normal relationship. I want to go out and have a good time with someone. Exchange ideas. Share laughs and feelings. Do things for each other. Care for each other. Have sex. And if it all works out, maybe get married someday.'

'Wh- What about...me?' Sherlock stammered almost inaudibly.

'What?' John looked up.

'I-I mean- we do most of what you said. Exchanging ideas, sharing laughs, doing things for each other, caring for each other.'

'I do things for you, Sherlock. I care for you. In return, you take over my life and mess up my dates.'

'I said I was sorry.'

'But then admitted you weren't.'

'If you want to go out with Anna again, I'll talk to her. Maybe apologise, even.'

'What? No! If you're my shadow, anyone who disrespects you disrespects me.'

'I'm not that special, John', his hard voice had an edge of resignation. 'I'm really not.'

John caught a glimpse of hurt flash over Sherlock's features and knew he was reliving incidents from his past when he had been taunted and shunned by people who didn't really know him, who didn't _understand_ him.

'You absolutely are, Sherlock.' John looked right into his friend's eyes. 'You are _dazzling_. You are the _most special_ person I know. Don't ever doubt that.'

'_You_ are the most special person _I_ know, John.'

'That's nice of you to say…but also untrue. I'm an ordinary bloke who likes James Bond and rugby. So, Scotland Yard then?'

'Scotland Yard.'

'You changed the ringtone on my phone.'

'Only for texts and calls from my number. So you'll know to pick up.'

'What is it?'

'Paganini's _Caprice No. 24 in A-minor_.'

'It's nice.'

'I can play it for you sometime.'

'I'd like that. I'd like that very much. You're special, see? You can play Paganini.'

'As are you. You like Paganini.'

'I like _you_.'

'I kn- ', Sherlock started to say but then turned away. 'Thank you for liking me.'

'You're sweet when you're not being annoying.'

'I am not sweet.'

'Yes, you are.'

'Shut up.'

'Fine.'

* * *

John was walking home one evening carrying groceries from Tesco when a black car pulled up to the pavement and began rolling forward slowly, keeping pace with him. He stopped and the car stopped too. The chauffeur got out and opened the passenger door for John. He bent down to peer into the car; it was dark but he discerned the silhouette of a man at the far window.

'Please get in, Mr. Watson', the man's cultured, unctuous voice instructed from the shadows. The chilling tone suffered no dissent and John obeyed.

'What is this? Am I being kidnapped?' he asked, as the chauffeur shut the door softly and stood outside.

John saw in the rear view mirror that a police car had stopped behind them. They were illegally parked. The policeman got out, peered at the licence plate, then at the driver, got back in his car and drove off. _Who the fuck is this guy? Mafia? MI5? What does he want with me?_

'You do not seem afraid, Mr. Watson.'

'You're not very frightening. Who are you?'

'An interested party.'

'Interested in what? Or whom? Oh...' he paused, recalling Sherlock's desire not to have a public record of his knife wound.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sherlock? Why?'

'That is not your concern.'

'_Not your concern?_' John laughed. 'You could be related to him, you know.'

The enigmatic man was not amused. 'I'm afraid I do not know what you mean.'

'I-'

'Did I say "know"? I meant "care". I shall do the talking, Mr. Watson.'

'I'm listening.'

'What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?'

'I am quite sure that is _not your concern_', John's inappropriate giggle was abnormally loud in the silent car. 'You aren't his jealous ex, by any chance?'

'Perhaps you are not fully seized of the seriousness of your current predicament.'

'Doesn't seem very serious to me. And it's certainly no predicament. From where I see it, this is some ludicrous double-oh-seven-like situation. "Goldfinger" gets me in his car and sits in the shadows while interrogating me about my best friend. You should know', John held up his phone, 'I've tapped out a text to Sherlock and DI Lestrade at NSY and am ready to press Send if you so much twitch an eyelid at me. They will find you.'

'So you consider Sherlock Holmes to be your b_est_ friend.'

'Yeah, he's my best friend. What's this about? Who are you, really?'

'What would Sherlock Holmes consider you?'

'You'll have to ask him that but it doesn't change what he is to me.'

'Is he merely your best friend?'

'What do you mean?'

'You make sure he eats and sleeps, you help him on his cases, you are the only person who can tell him when he is being insufferable. You also tend to his knife wounds in your flat and don't alert the police.'

'How do you know about that?' John challenged, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'I know many things, Mr. Watson. What I do not know is how Sherlock Holmes will cope when you leave.'

'That's cynical. Why do you think I will leave?'

'Most people leave Sherlock Holmes.'

'I'm not most people.'

The man leaned forward slightly and John saw a high forehead under brown hair. Keen gray eyes studied him and he knew that every little ordinary detail about him, things he wouldn't give a second thought from the way he parted his hair to his clothing choices to the length of his fingernails and the quality of his shave, was being used to deduce him. This man was uncannily like Sherlock in that respect. When the man leaned back, John knew he had appraised him to his satisfaction and come to a decision.

'Indeed, you are not. This has been a most illuminating conversation, Mr. Watson. Thank you for speaking with me.'

The chauffeur opened the door.

'It's not like I had a choice. Is that it?'

'That will be all, yes. You may leave.'

'So who _are_ you? A friend?'

'You've known him nearly a year now. How many friends do you think he has?'

'At least one.'

'I am no friend, Mr. Watson. I am afraid your friend considers me an enemy. Arch enemy, in fact. He tends to be dramatic.'

'Arch enemy?'

'I am, to Sherlock Holmes' eternal chagrin, his brother', the man said ruefully.

'Brother?! He's never mentioned you.'

'Small wonder, Mr. Watson. I am older by seven years and he resents me for being the first born. He was, until the age of five, convinced that Mummy and Daddy had conspired to have me first. He was quite jealous as a boy.'

'He still is! Peevish git. Wait, five?'

'Five. That is when he taught himself about the reproductive system. That knowledge has done little to cure him of his bitterness.'

'Oh yeah, I can see Sherlock at age five studying biology. Precocious bastard.'

The two men sighed in tandem. In complete contrast to their words, their thoughts of Sherlock were inexplicably fond.

'If you're Sherlock's brother, you might as well call me John.'

'In that case, I am Mycroft Holmes.'

'Mycroft...Mycroft…', John felt the unusual name roll off his tongue. 'Huh. _Mummy and Daddy_ have come up with some peculiar names, haven't they? Sherlock, Mycroft. If you had a brother, would they have named him _Sherrinford_?' John began to smile at his own joke but his laughter died stillborn when he noticed Mycroft's stony we-are-not-amused face.

'You could be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever.'

'Erm…bad joke. Sorry.'

'Watch over him, will you, John? Because he won't let me.'

'I shall. Good evening, Mycroft.'

'Good evening, John.'

* * *

'You've met Mycroft. You've sat in his car', Sherlock declared as soon as John walked into the flat. He was stretched out on the couch, his palms steepled under his chin as he studied the ceiling.

'That's amazing! How can you tell?'

'You smell of his car air freshener. Coconut lime.'

'You're extraordinary, you know?' John laughed. 'Creepy but extraordinary.'

'I know.'

'And a bit of an arrogant dick. Why do you think of him as an enemy? He seemed concerned about you.'

'It's an act. This is how he tries to curry favour. Did he threaten you in any way?'

'No, why would he?'

'Curious. He is dangerous.'

'Dangerous? Well, yeah. A bobby pulled up behind us but then drove off after looking at his car. He seemed very cloak-and-dagger, shrouded in shadow, using a deep voice. Quite theatrical, I thought. What's his line of work?'

'He works for the British government. Actually, he _is_ the British government.'

'Ah, that explains it.'

'John, I don't wish to speak about my brother. He makes me lose my appetite.'

'Fine, what's for dinner? Smells great.'

'Take-away Indian.'

'I'll get the plates.'

'Plate. I'm not eating.'

'Plates. You are eating.'

'Tyrant.'

'Pushover.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

'Who's _that_ bloke?' John asked, drawing Sherlock's attention to a tall, golden-haired young man who seemed fascinated by Sherlock and was watching them from a distance. They were leaning against a pillar in the University courtyard. Sherlock's eyes lifted for a quick glance at the object of John's question and then returned to his phone, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he typed out an email.

'Victor Trevor', he said, still typing. 'Melbourne's newest export to London. Father's on the board of ANZ Bank and thinks his son should benefit from England's educational system as he himself had in the 1960s. He's reading Chemistry here. You might like him. Plays rugby and tennis. Owns a bachelor pad in Belgravia and a fifty foot yacht. Birthday gift.'

'Holy- the guy is a walking advert for "lifestyles of the rich and famous". Easy on the eyes, too.'

'If you like that sort of look…'

'I wouldn't be surprised if he's one of London's most eligible bachelors in a few years.'

Sherlock made an unimpressed sound.

'So how in hell do you know all that?'

'He told me.'

'When?' John shot a sidelong glance at Sherlock.

'Yesterday, when you were in your Patient Care lecture. He came up to me in the library.'

'He's got the whole student body fawning over him.'

'Almost.'

'Yeah, almost', John agreed. 'Let's go home... Victor Trevor. Another man with two first names…Huh', John scoffed.

'You're forgetting your hero, _Daniel Craig._'

'Hey, lay off Daniel!' John laughed. 'And he's not my hero, _you _are, remember?'

'So you say. Are you still watching Victor?'

_'I'm_ not watching him. _He's_ still watching _you_! I think he wants to be friends with you._'_

'I don't think so.'

'When was the last time someone actually came up to you and risked having their head bitten off? I think you want to be friends with him too.'

'Don't be absurd.'

'When was the last time _you_ listened to someone long enough to learn about their background? _And_ didn't bite their head off?'

'I don't _bite heads_. I just don't suffer fools. Stop exaggerating.'

'You bite heads. You're a vampire.'

'Shut up.'

'Vampire.'

'Vampires bite necks, not heads. Do your research.'

'Fine. Head-biter', John giggled.

'You're getting sillier by the second, John. Stop. I'm embarrassed for you.'

'Head-biter.'

'You are hopeless', Sherlock smiled.

'I know', John laughed.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock was walking in the courtyard when he heard footsteps quicken behind him.

'Hey Sherlock!'

He stopped and turned around to see Victor running up behind him in the hallway.

'How are you, Sherlock?'

'I'm well, Victor. How are you?'

'Good, I'm good. So…you're alone today?'

'What do you mean?'

'No John. You're always with John.'

'John is attending a lecture now. He should be out in ten minutes, if you want to wait.'

'No, no…I- uh, I wanted to speak to you, actually. But you're always…kinda in _orbit_ around each other. It's really rare to get you alone, you know what I mean?'

'No, I do not know what you mean.'

'I mean…you and he…are you…toget-'

'John is my best friend, Victor. Of course we're together.'

'Yeah, sure. Sorry. So…uh…do you feel like doing something fun sometime? You know, whenever you want. I was thinking we could uh- go out, grab a bite, have a drink, shoot the breeze…just two guys having a good time?'

'I already have John for that.'

'Oh, ok, yeah', Victor's face fell. 'So…I'll see you around then. Bye'

'Bye.'

* * *

Later that week, John stood in the living room. It was six p.m. Sherlock's eyes skittered over his flatmate – freshly shampooed hair, careful shave, navy blue shirt under his black shooting jacket, dark jeans. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a smattering of soft, blond hair. A hint of cologne wafted across to Sherlock. John had a date and was clearly hoping to parlay his "reliable med student with a hint of danger" persona into a successful romp in the bed. Sherlock tried to swallow down the twinge of resentment in his stomach. When he failed, he retired to his bedroom.

'Sherlock!' John stood outside Sherlock's bedroom.

'What is it?' Sherlock called back.

John waited for his friend to look up from his laptop.

'Yes, John. What is it?'

'I won't be home for dinner tonight.'

'I know.'

'I've uh- got a date.'

'The entire neighbourhood is aware that you have a date, John.'

'Berk. I just wanted to make sure you eat something.'

'Why do you care? Go on your date.'

'The two are not mutually exclusive. There's pasta from last night in the fridge.'

'Who is it this time?'

'Erm…you don't know her.'

'Hence my question.'

'Samantha. Sam, as she likes to be called.'

'Samantha Frost. I know her. She's been interested in you for over a month now. What took you so long?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's got something to do with my _bloody flatmate _taking over my life!'

Sherlock smirked. 'What if I need you tonight?'

'You won't need me tonight. Or at least I hope not. Actually…uh, why don't you go out yourself?'

'What?'

'Y-yeah. Why not? Yeah, go out. Have fun. No point in staying home alone while I'm on a date.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I do. Yeah, I mean that. Go do things that you enjoy that I might not. Have fun.'

'Alright. I'll think about it. Have fun yourself.'

After John had left, Sherlock ruminated over what he had said. He actually didn't want to stay in that evening and John seemed to need more than Sherlock to entertain him. He wondered if there were individuals other than John with whom he might not mind conversing. They would never be John, of course, but maybe they didn't need to be. A name came to mind and he pulled out his mobile phone to dial a number from memory.

'Victor, this is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sherlock! Hey, what's up?'

'I wanted to take you up on your offer to "do something fun", if you are free this evening.'

'Yeah, that's- that sounds great! I'd love to. I was heading down to the Royal Thames Yacht Club. I dock my yacht there. We could meet at seven. If you'd like to go sailing, that is. Or we could do whatever you like. You pick.'

'Sailing sounds agreeable. I'll see you there at seven.'

'Bye, Sherlock. I'm looking forward to this evening.'

'Bye, Victor.'

* * *

John had his first uninterrupted date in four months. He told himself he should be glad that Sherlock wasn't texting him or springing up from behind his date or otherwise being annoying. Yet his silent phone weighed his pocket down like a boulder. His hand crept down every once in a while to pull it out and check for messages.

_No messages. Huh. Ring tone's not muted. Battery's still holding a charge. That's odd. The twat usually doesn't wait fifteen minutes into a date before he pops up. Wonder what he's up to.  
_  
Two hours later he told Sam he had a great time but had to get home early to study and that he would call her soon. _I will, won't I? _

When he returned home at eleven, Sherlock was not in and John's heart sank even further. He told himself that he was thrilled to have had an enjoyable date and that Sherlock was out probably having fun with someone as he himself had suggested. Someone _else_. The devastating implications of that innocuous little word seared him.

He brushed his teeth and dragged his unwilling feet to his bedroom, waiting for sleep to claim him and wash away his tortured thoughts. But sleep didn't come and he stayed awake, alert, listening, waiting for the door to open, for Sherlock to return, for things to go back to the way they were. The door did open at half past one and Sherlock did return, but he was not alone. A throaty laugh rang out the silent living room and he heard Sherlock shushing his inconsiderate guest. _Another man. Whom had Sherlock brought to their flat? _The mystery was killing him and when his curiosity finally quashed his desire to give Sherlock his privacy, he shuffled into the living room, stopping short when he saw Sherlock's companion. Victor Trevor. Sherlock had chosen to go out with Victor Trevor. For the briefest moment, John felt _replaced_.

Sherlock was expounding animatedly on the different kinds of tobacco ash while a riveted Victor listened. It was obvious to John that Victor cared naught for the study of tobacco but would happily listen to Sherlock read the phone book because he was mesmerised by him. _Bastard, _John thought and then caught himself. _Why is he a bastard for liking Sherlock? That's what I've always wanted, isn't it? For Sherlock to find someone who liked him like "that". _

John coughed discreetly. Sherlock stopped in mid-sentence and he and Victor turned to look at him.

'John! So sorry to wake you…' Victor beamed at him.

_Fucker. He's trying to be fucking Prince Charming_, John thought. The unbidden curses were disturbingly revelatory and suddenly he was ashamed of the truths they exposed about himself.

'John. Why aren't you asleep?' Sherlock asked.

'I just returned a little while ago myself. Did you have a good time?'

'We had a great time!' Victor smiled again. 'We went sailing.'

_Would you stop smiling, you bastard?_ John thought again and mentally kicked himself. _  
_  
'It was a pleasant evening.' To John's ears, Sherlock's flat tone was incongruous with Victor's exuberance and he felt a perverse satisfaction.

'Victor has invited me to go sailing again on Saturday.'

'You're welcome to join us, John.'

_Sure, I'm welcome. Bastard. You're just saying that because Sherlock's listening.  
_  
'Thanks, Victor, but I'm afraid I already have plans for the weekend.'

He noticed Sherlock watching him keenly but didn't meet his gaze. His face was apparently more transparent than he'd like and in any case Sherlock knew his every little expression.

'Actually, I too have plans, Victor. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind.'

'No worries, some other time, then. OK, I should be off. This was great fun. Good night, Sherlock.'

'Good night, Victor.'

'Good night, John. Sorry again for waking you.'

'It's no problem. Think you'll get a taxi this time of night?'

'No need. I've parked my Ducati downstairs.'

_Fucking show-off._

'That's great. See you around then.'

_Oh… Sherlock sat behind him on the motorbike. Fuck._

Victor left. Sherlock and John stood alone in the living room. John pursed his lips while Sherlock watched him. A long minute ticked by agonizingly slowly and the silence grew uncomfortable. John knew that Sherlock knew he was upset.

'I'm going back to bed, Sherlock.'

'Okay.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Victor left. Sherlock and John stood alone in the living room. John pursed his lips while Sherlock watched him. A long minute ticked by agonizingly slowly and the silence grew uncomfortable. John knew that Sherlock knew he was upset._

'I'm going back to bed, Sherlock.'

'Okay.'

Night gave way to daylight and smooth sunbeams streamed into the room, golden and warm. They seemed frayed to John's tormented mind, dispelling not just the darkness but also the fog of self-deception in which he wasn't aware he had been hiding. The thought of Sherlock enjoying an evening with Victor was unbearable to him. A dark possessiveness for Sherlock that had lain dormant all this while had reared its head the previous night and taken hold in his chest, shocking him in its intensity. He lay in bed, deeply troubled, staring out of the window at the lightening sky.

_What am I doing? This is fear. I'm afraid of losing him. That's all it is. That's probably why he interrupts my dates all the time. He must also be afraid he'll lose me. Idiot. We will still be friends even if we each find someone. I'll never stop needing him even if I find someone. Why should I think he would? I'm a jealous, possessive, fucking idiot!_

John packed these unwelcome thoughts and filed them away. They didn't bear further scrutiny right that minute. He showered and went to the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock was already awake, sitting at the table in his silk robe, the black one today, and reading the newspaper.

'So…uh…Victor, huh?'

'Yes, Victor.'

'Was that a date?'

'No.'

'But you went out and had fun, didn't you?'

'It was not disagreeable.'

'So you did have fun.'

'I did.'

'Ergo, it was a date.'

'No. I don't like him yet.'

John felt weak with relief. Then his legs gave out and he slumped into a chair, hit with the realisation that Sherlock had said "yet".

* * *

Since Sherlock's sailing trip with Victor, John's dates dwindled in frequency and duration, not for want of opportunity but of desire. His awareness of Sherlock had grown sharper since that night. Some days he fell asleep on the couch and would be gently awakened by Sherlock and led to his bedroom. Some nights he awoke on the couch and found Sherlock asleep, legs folded on the floor, arms folded on the seat by John's stomach, his head turned to the side and resting on his arms. Moonbeams streamed into the room through the gently billowing curtains and bathed his friend's pale face in silver light. He reached out a tentative hand and ghosted his palm over those beautiful, dark tousled curls.

_I could look at you forever. You're beautiful. How did I never really see you before? You're all long lines and dark hair and creamy skin and eyes like the waters of a placid lake. So ethereal. So… perfect. You look like you're made from the stars. You need to soar with someone like you - brilliant and beautiful. But you won't find that person as long as I am here. You won't want to. I'm holding you back but I must let you go. I must set you free. How do I do it?_

Victor invited John to every outing he took with Sherlock. John made his excuses each time.

* * *

'Victor's got tickets to Danny Boyle's Frankenstein at the National Theatre. It's got great reviews. He's invited us both. Should we go?'

'You should. I've got to study.'

'How is it you always need to study when something like this come up? I don't study nearly as much as you do.'

'You don't need to, Sherlock. Also, I'm not really one for the Arts, like you. You should go. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself. Have fun.'

'Fine. I'll come straight home, though. We'll have dinner together.'

'Sure, if that's what you want.'

'It is what I want.'

'Victor's got tickets to the premiere of Skyfall, John. He's invited us both. Surely you'll come this time? There's a panel interview with Sam Mendes and Daniel Craig after the show.'

'That sounds great but I've got to study. Got a test coming up in a week.'

'Are you lying about your test, John? Or do you just not wish to spend time with me anymore?'

'I'm not lying, Sherlock. And I'll always want to spend time with you.'

'Then come with me!'

'I really, really can't! You know I'd like to see Daniel Craig but I've got to study. You drag me on so many cases that I've fallen behind. See? We do spend time together. _That _is our time. This is your time with Victor.'

'This used to be our time, too. You're changing and I don't know why. Have I done something to upset you?'

'Stop imagining things. I just need to catch up on my courses. That's all.'

'Fine. I'll tell Victor I'm not going.'

'No, don't do that. Do you want to go?'

'I do, if you want to. You know I don't enjoy silly movies like that. I only watch them because you do.'

'Don't be like that. Go now and enjoy yourself. Tell me all the ways in which the screenwriter and director fucked up, yeah? You'll have fun.'

Each time Sherlock left, John paced the floor, hating himself for feeling the way he did. As always, Sherlock had seen through his pretexts. Something _was_ changing in him, something very fundamental and he didn't like it.

* * *

Sherlock and Victor attended a concert by Itzhak Perlman at the Royal Albert Hall – Perlman plays Paganini. Sherlock had bought two tickets but John had begged off saying he wouldn't understand highfalutin classical violin music.

'But you liked Paganini, John', Sherlock reminded him. 'I picked this because I thought _you'd_ like it.'

'I liked Paganini because of _you_. Otherwise, I'm more of a Motown bloke, you know that.'

'Fine, next time you pick.'

'Sounds good, Sherlock. But go with Victor. He'd enjoy this.'

'I'm not going.'

'Come on, Sherlock. You love Perlman and you love Paganini. Victor will go with you. Go. Have fun.'

'Would you .saying that?! Of late, "have fun" invariably implies "without you". You're pushing me away.'

'I'm not, Sherlock.'

'Stop denying it! This is getting tiresome. I _know_ you, John.'

'If you know me, how do you not _see_?' John's voice was raw with honesty.

'I _do_ see…I see my best friend doing whatever he can to spend as little time with me as possible. You don't even pretend to go on dates anymore, John. Enjoy your studies as that's all you seem to do these days.'

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out of the flat. John stood rooted to his spot, mentally flaying himself for his traitorous feelings.

_What am I doing? I've made a travesty of our friendship. I know what this is but I dare not name it. It's wrong, completely wrong! I'm betraying his trust by feeling this way. Why now, after almost two years? _

…  
_It doesn't matter what I feel. Sherlock seems to like Victor. They are good together. I knew they would be. I should be happy. I should be._

…  
_I need to get away from here. I need to get out. But how?_

Life seemed to have heard John because it offered him a reprieve. It was not an entirely fortunate circumstance but a reprieve, nonetheless, because one day he received a call from Harry and his choices immediately became easier.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Life seemed to have heard John because it offered him a reprieve. It was not an entirely fortunate circumstance but a reprieve, nonetheless, because one day he received a call from Harry and his choices immediately became easier._

* * *

'Sherlock.'

'Yes, John', Sherlock answered, not looking up from John's laptop.

'You know I'm in my second year of the Foundation Programme.'

'I know.'

'And that I've got to do another six months of residency training.'

'Yes, I know.' Sherlock still hadn't looked up.

'I've taken a six-month opportunity in Glasgow. I'll be leaving next Friday.'

Sherlock raised his head, not looking at John.

'What.'

'Glasgow.'

'Why.'

'It's a good hospital, Glasgow Royal Infirmary. It includes the University of Glasgow medical school. I'm actually on an exchange programme with one of their students.'

'Were University Placement Services unable to find you anything in London?'

'I didn't ask to be placed in London.'

'Why not? Are your test scores not good enough to get you into one of London's _hundreds _of hospitals?'

'My test scores are pretty good, actually. I'm in the top five percent this year.'

Sherlock turned slowly in his chair, fixing John with an icy glare.

'Then I am at a loss to understand why you must relocate to Glasgow.'

'I'm of Scottish descent. John _Hamish_ Watson, as you know.'

'By the same token, I have French, Australian and German roots. Where do you recommend _I_ continue my studies?'

'Come on, Sherlock. I just thought I'd spend six months in Scotland and be with my mum.'

'Your mother? You've never mentioned her before this.'

'It didn't seem important to discuss family.'

'When did you decide to go to Glasgow?'

'A month ago.'

'A month ago', Sherlock intoned. 'A _month_ ago.' His voice shook with restrained anger.

'Yes. I'm sorr-'

'And you see fit to tell me about it now, _one week_ before you leave.'

'I'm sorry. I knew you wouldn't be happy about it and just uh- didn't want to bother you with it.'

'That's very considerate, John but you're not going.'

'I _am_ going, Sherlock.'

'You're not. You can't. Find something in London', Sherlock decreed and turned back to John's laptop.

'Sherlock. Sherlock, listen to me. I'm going. I've made my decision.'

'A decision that affects the both of us but you chose not to share with me until just now.'

'It'll be for the best, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's jaw clenched and his eyes turned to stone. 'In what _precise_ way will it _be for the best_, John? Please. Enlighten me. Because, from where I see it, you have unilaterally ensured that you'll live away from me for an extended period of time. This is how it begins, isn't it? You're getting ready to leave for good. You've been building up to this.'

'Don't be dramatic, Sherlock. It's only six months and Glasgow is not across the planet.'

'Is that your final decision?'

'It is.'

'In that case, there is nothing more to discuss.'

'I thought you'd be more supportive of me.'

'You thought wrong. And we are not discussing this anymore.'

'Fine. Be like that. I need to go out but I'll be back for dinner. Should I get us some takeaway?'

'No.'

'Are you going somewhere?'

'I'm going to watch a tennis match with Victor.'

'Oh-.'

'He's invited you but I know you won't join us.'

John bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. 'Have fun', he said by rote.

'Without you. I certainly will.'

John sighed and left the flat.

* * *

The week passed slowly. John saw very little of Sherlock. When he did, Sherlock was usually pacing about the flat like a cat in heat, figuratively scratching at the walls and spewing poisonous words when John tried to get him to calm down and talk to him. Their all-too-short conversations consisted primarily of Sherlock's condemnations of John's selfish and poor decision-making after which he invariably stormed off to his bedroom to stew some more. John's intellect and his loyalty were subjected to ruthless battering by Sherlock's formidable vocabulary on a daily basis. When John was able to step back from his hurt, he was genuinely impressed that Sherlock knew so many distinct ways to call him an idiot and a traitorous friend.

Six weeks ago, Sherlock would not have _believed_ that John would want to move away from him. Now he found it impossible to look at John without feeling abandoned. So he stopped looking at him. When Sherlock stopped looking at him, John felt utterly rejected. Like an unwelcome guest in what had been his home for two years.

The twenty feet between their bedrooms felt like a gaping chasm. They spent their last week together under one roof yet never further apart.

* * *

It was finally the Friday of John's departure. His bags were packed and he waited by the door to say his goodbyes. Sherlock knew he was leaving but didn't emerge from his bedroom.

'Goodbye, Sherlock', he called out miserably to the empty living room.

'Haven't you left yet?' a testy voice responded from inside the flat.

A long sigh deflated John; he turned around in resignation and moved his bags outside the front door which he shut and began to descend the stairs with his bags. He had just reached the first landing when the door flew open. Bare feet pattered down the stairs and, before he had time to react, his face was pressed into a soft t-shirt under which thrummed the heart of his best friend.

John choked on the groundswell of affection crashing through him. 'Hey, what's all this? Sherlock…'

Long arms tightened around him in response.

That his flatmate deigned to wear pyjamas and a t-shirt under his dressing gown was a great compromise on his part so it was too much to expect that he also wear pants. John's attention was splintered by the contrasting feel of hard bone, taut muscles and soft, vulnerable flesh pressing into his hips. Softness was rapidly devolving into hardness and John's uncomfortable squirming only exacerbated the situation by accelerating the tumescence. So he stopped. Realising that resistance was futile, he raised him arms and wrapped them around Sherlock's surprisingly sinewy back. His senses were inundated with an acute awareness of Sherlock's beauty, his warmth, his masculinity, his scent, painful additions to the conflicting emotions already wreaking havoc in him.

'It's only six months, Sherlock. We'll text and email and ring each other regularly. Six months will pass before we know it. At any rate, Lestrade will call you for a new case and within a week, you'll have forgotten what I look like.'

'Won't happen.'

'No?'

'No, we'll Skype.'

John laughed. 'Yeah, we'll Skype. See? It'll be fine.'

'Shut up. It'll be hateful.'

'I'm just your friend, Sherlock. People don't miss friends that much.'

'I am not a Hallmark card, John. I won't _miss_ you. I am merely habituated to your presence, considering you are my best friend and have been living with me for two years. It will be terribly inconvenient without you.'

John saw through Sherlock's feigned dispassion and chuckled sadly. 'People don't miss even best friends that much.'

'Don't tell me what people do.'

'Alright, I won't. But I'll miss you too, you nutter.'

'Of course you will.'

They stood like that for a while, content to be wrapped in each other's arms. John unconsciously turned his face, slowly sliding his cheek over the soft t-shirt till his nose nudged the middle of Sherlock's chest. He stiffened when he felt his friend's hold on him loosen just a fraction. _Oh god! What have I done? He noticed! Oh god, oh god! I'm a fucking idiot! He doesn't feel that way. I've fucked it all up._

'Sherlock, I can't breathe. You're crushing me.' _Will he believe that? God! Let him believe that!_

'Fine. Breathe…Breathing is boring', he grumbled and released John from his embrace to hold his shoulders, his bravado evaporating when he looked down into a sea of panicked fondness in John's blue eyes. 'Will…will you find some girl there and forget me? That's what happens in real life, isn't it?'

'Maybe you'll find a boy here and forget me.' _Sherlock looks so…bereft._ _Do I mean that much to him?_

'I won't forget you.'

'Yeah, you say that now. I bet Victor makes his big move as soon as my bum hits the taxi seat.'

'Victor?'

'Oh god, Sherlock! Don't you see how he looks at you? Why do you think he's been hovering about you for months now, taking you on his yacht, to the theatre, tennis matches and whatnot? He's courting you but he's been holding back all this time. I sometimes think I'm your personal can of Victor-repellant and the moment I'm out of the picture, he'll make his grand move.'

'You think so?'

'I know so.'

'What if he does make his move?'

…  
'John?'

'Well…if you like him…'

'Do you like him?'

'He's…yeah, he's nice.'

'_You're_ nice.'

'And you are sweet to say that.'

'I've told you before, I'm not sweet.'

'You are and you won't convince me otherwise.'

…  
'Do _you _like him, Sherlock?'

'He's not annoying.'

_No, he's not_, John thought despondently. _He is good for you. You are good for him. You like him. This should feel right. So why does it hurt so much?_

Sherlock pressed his nose into John's hair and breathed in the fragrance of his shampoo, as if to forever capture him in scent.

'I'll be alone', he murmured against John's forehead. It felt like a kiss.

'Hush…', John said, cradling Sherlock's face in his small hands. He was struck by how vulnerable Sherlock looked in that moment. How lost. 'You'll find someone worthy of you, Sherlock. You are too special for the world to leave you alone.'

'I didn't speak to you all week because I hated you for leaving. I still do.'

'Sherlock...We may have separate lives in the end but I'll always be your friend.'

'Shut up. You're coming back. Six months. That's all the time you'll get.'

'I will come back if you'll let me leave now or I'll miss my train. With my luck with hailing taxis, I'll be waiting another half hour!'

'Let's take your bags down.'

The two friends walked out of 221 Baker Street and Sherlock stood in his pyjamas, t-shirt and robe and his bare feet on the pavement. A stab of sadness pierced John's heart. He looked away before Sherlock caught the forlorn look in his eye.

'Taxi!' Sherlock shouted, holding up an arm as his robe flapped around him like a blue cape. Miraculously, a taxi pulled up to the curb.

'Your chariot awaits, John.'

'Take care, Sherlock. Please eat. Don't do anything dangerous like blowing up the flat and yourself with it. Remember to sleep at least four times a week. Don't get stabbed or shot or otherwise hurt. Don't jump off buildings. Just be careful, ok? I won't be there to stitch you up. Please. Just-', he looked away as his eyes misted.

'Yes, Mummy, I shall. Now you don't want to miss your train.' Sherlock blinked rapidly, biting his lower lip and looking everywhere but at John. He took a step forward to embrace John but thought the better of it. They were on the street and John wouldn't want anyone to think he was gay. Instead, he held out his hand and John took it. Their skin burned. Whoever said a handshake is as good as a hug was so very mistaken.

John sat in the taxi and looked up at Sherlock through the window. _Goodbye, _he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_John sat in the taxi and looked up at Sherlock through the window. Goodbye, he thought. _

* * *

'Hi, Sherlock!' Victor's cheerful voice called out to him. 'Mind if I'm your partner in Chem lab today?'

'If you wish', he sulked. He just wanted John back.

'Great! I'll see you at half past one then.'

Over the past two months, Sherlock learned that behind Victor's handsome visage was a keen mind. He had found himself speaking about his interests in the sciences, psychology, forensics and a myriad of other subjects as he had only ever spoken to John. Victor was always an attentive and engaged audience. Sherlock recognised that this was not entirely platonic interest; the blond was captivated by him. He noticed that since John's departure Victor had become bolder and openly enamoured and that he had become just a bit more receptive to Victor's overtures.

They developed an easy rhythm to their interactions, a comfortable familiarity around each other and if that day in Chem lab Victor's fingers lingered, quite unnecessarily, on Sherlock's wrist as he held a beaker, Sherlock let him, trying to ignore the tiny flutter in his stomach. Ever the scientist in search of empirical evidence, he leaned over his lab partner, covered Victor's hand on the mouse and moved it over the mouse pad to draw his attention to different areas on the computer screen as he walked Victor through the results of an experiment. They both knew full well that the back of a pen pointing to the screen would have been equally effective. When Victor looked up at him with naked adoration, Sherlock blinked and swallowed, silently cataloguing their reactions – Victor's utterly predictable, his own most unexpected. He needed to understand this.

Sherlock emailed John.

_John, you were right. Victor seems to have taken a fancy to me. His attentions are not unpleasant in the least but I find myself ill-equipped to respond appropriately just yet. I am, however, in the process of collecting preparatory data._

_How is your residency progressing? Are your colleagues amiable? Your mother must be happy to have you visit. Is she aware that you have cruelly left me here with no means for survival?_

_-SH_

John replied two days later.

_Hi Sherlock, _ _Things are fine here. The other doctors are very cooperative. I learn something new every day but the schedule is absolutely mental._ _Glasgow is a nice city. My mum is fine and she's happy to have me around. I have not revealed my cruelty to her lest she ask me to return to London right away. Also, you do know the corner Tesco carries everything you'll need to survive._ _Take care, Sherlock._ _-John_

Sherlock and Victor began to meet in the library for study sessions where Sherlock spent more time deducing their classmates than plying his books and Victor's husky laugh echoed in the quiet hall, eliciting a chorus of shushes from fellow students. They spent some evenings in a local pub. Sherlock was not a big drinker and one beer usually sufficed. Victor, on the other hand, loved to drink.

Their first kiss was very brief and very innocent, just a quick press of lips. It happened outside the pub as they walked home. Victor had had one drink too many and stopped to lean on Sherlock, his head resting on the dark haired man's shoulder. Sherlock muttered under his breath about Victor being a lightweight but didn't push him away. Victor started to rub his cheek into Sherlock's shirt and his face began a slow ascent up to his neck. When he pushed his nose into the space between Sherlock's shirt collar and his skin and began to nuzzle the nook of his neck and shoulder, Sherlock gasped.

'Can I kiss you?' Victor slurred. His voice was rough with intent.

'You're drunk.'

'I'm sober enough to know that I really want to kiss you.'

'Why?'

'You're lovely and I've wanted to kiss you since I first laid eyes on you. You're just lovely.'

'So you like how I look. Is that all?'

'I like how you look and I _love_ how you think. Let me kiss you', Victor murmured into Sherlock's skin.

'Fine', Sherlock huffed.

'Really?' Victor asked, pulling back in happy surprise to look at his friend. Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes so Victor held his chin between thumb and forefinger and turned his face to look at him.

'Hey, look at me, Sherlock. C'mon…'

'What for? Just get on with it.'

Victor sensed his discomfort. He couldn't tell if it was unwillingness or inexperience. 'Have you been kissed before?'

'Does it matter? Will you not want to kiss me if I haven't?'

'No, I'll want to kiss you even more because your lips will be _mine_.'

'Never before.'

'Not even John?'

'John is not gay.'

'Did you want to kiss him?'

'That's irrelevant.'

'Fair enough', Victor said and led Sherlock into a darkened alleyway, away from prying eyes on the main street. 'Close your eyes, then.'

'Why?'

'Close your eyes. It's better that way.'

'Just get on with it, will you?' Sherlock urged tautly.

'Hey, relax. I'll only kiss you if you want it. Do you?'

'Yes, yes!' Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.

'Fine, _I'm_ going to close my eyes when I kiss you. Because I want to only _feel_ you', Victor murmured as his green eyes drew shut and a second later, his face closed over Sherlock's and soft, warm flesh was pressed to his lips. Sherlock held absolutely still, staring in terror at the wall over Victor's shoulder while the blond man's lips began to move. No tongue, no saliva, just dry flesh moving over dry flesh. A tingling stupor prickled Sherlock's lips and coursed through his skin all the way to his eyes until they slowly closed while his lips began their own languid dance over Victor's. His mind fell away from the present and recessed deeper into his subconscious which was suddenly flooded with thoughts of blond locks spilling over steadfast eyes and thin lips lazily stretching into a familiar expression of fondness. His eyes flew open in shock and he pulled away abruptly.

'Are you okay?' Victor asked.

'Yes, I'm fine. I need to go.' _Why were the eyes in my mind blue?_

When he was back in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock emailed John.

_John, how are you? You must be quite busy because you haven't returned my voice messages. I've left you a couple already. Let me know when I can call you again. Or call me when you can._

_Victor and I went out for drinks today. Most unexpectedly, I thought of you. You are an infuriatingly persistent presence in my thoughts. Get out. Or come back._

_-SH_

He hit Send, cursed himself and immediately sent John another email.

_Come back._ _-SH_

John did not reply.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday the following week, Victor licked Sherlock's lips open and kissed him with his tongue. Sherlock kept his mouth open and motionless for Victor to explore, observing the elevation in his own pulse and his quickening breaths. On Thursday, he licked Victor's undulant tongue. They spent the next half hour panting into each other's mouths while their hands traced patterns of desperation over their bodies.

On Friday, Victor unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders before he pulled off his own t-shirt. He lowered his head to Sherlock's chest and kissed and sucked on his nipples for a long time. Sherlock's body was aflame with sensation but he did not make a sound; his quivering torso and his hands biting into Victor's shoulders were the only indications of his loss of control. Then Victor lifted his head and covered Sherlock's mouth with his. They kissed, touched, sighed and kissed again until the sky turned dark, the stars came out and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

That weekend, Victor took Sherlock in his hand. It was another first for Sherlock and he shook with unimaginable pleasure. His infrequent discharges were mostly for biological relief, very rarely for self-pleasuring, but Victor's hand on him was a revelation – gentle yet controlling, unctuously coaxing his pleasure out of him. When he had emptied himself over Victor's hand, Victor smeared Sherlock's come over his own turgid flesh to smoothen his movements and masturbated while Sherlock watched, transfixed, through heavy-lidded eyes, his breath coming in harsh pants through open glistening lips.

Sherlock emailed John.

_John, how are you? Your time management skills are woeful. Surely you have five minutes to send me an email. You haven't answered your voice messages either. _

_Victor and I have been spending a lot of time together and I have much to tell you and ask you. Things I wouldn't share with anyone else. But you're not here._ _-SH_

John sent him an email the following day.

_Hi Sherlock,_

_Things are extremely busy here. I have a twelve hour daytime shift in A&E and then am expected to be on call for the rest of the night. As you can imagine, it's thoroughly exhausting. This will be my schedule for the next two months so I don't know when I'll get time to write to you again. Don't mistake my lack of communication for a lack of desire to communicate._

_I am glad that Victor is keeping you company because all of Baker Street knows how crabby you get when you are bored. Can't have you harpooning a pig and riding the Tube covered in blood just to be entertained._

_Please remember to eat, sleep and stay safe._

_Take care, Sherlock._  
_- John_

Two weeks later, Victor took Sherlock in his mouth while one hand caressed his balls and the fingers of his other hand ventured into his cleft. Sherlock's fingers closed over Victor's wrist like a vice, stopping him before he could reach his most intimate spot. Victor understood and retreated, focusing on sucking the flesh in his mouth. Sherlock's torso seized uncontrollably as the region between his legs came alive like never before and he spilled for a long time down Victor's throat. Victor asked him if he would take him in his mouth. Sherlock's nose scrunched at the bitter taste of Victor's essence but he seemed to greatly enjoy what his mouth was doing so he swallowed to return the favour.

During the week that followed, Victor taught Sherlock to enter him with his fingers. Sherlock chanced upon a small bud inside Victor that caused the blond to spasm with pleasure. He raised his head to watch Victor in the throes of his climax as he stimulated the bud enough to make Victor spew come on his cheeks and neck.

Sherlock didn't email or ring John.

Over the next few weeks, Victor coaxed Sherlock's legs apart and introduced him to the pleasures of rimming, taking care not to breach him in the slightest. Sherlock's skin burned under the attentions of Victor's hot and wet tongue and, in pursuit of even more scientific data, he enthusiastically reciprocated, tasting and teasing Victor's clean skin and cataloguing his moans and mewls by pitch and volume. Victor was proving to be a trove of sexual secrets and a very willing teacher who had found in Sherlock an equally enthusiastic, and by a happy coincidence, spectacularly gifted pupil.

Finally, three months after their first kiss, Victor rolled a condom onto Sherlock, lay on his back, dropped his thighs open and guided Sherlock inside his slick hole. They rose and fell like waves for a long time, wet sounds of slapping flesh and cries of pleasure filling the quiet room. Victor's legs were wrapped tight around his hips as he convulsed below Sherlock, spurting thick ropes of hot ejaculate over his belly and chest. Sherlock himself was tumbling over the edge of pleasure when he opened his eyes in dismay because they were filled with a face that was not Victor's.

He knew then, with terrifying clarity, that that had been the _only_ face in his mind all this time. He lay awake in Victor's bed long after the other man had gone to sleep, imploding on the inside. That face floated before him and he looked longingly into the apparition's eyes – large irises so dark that they appeared black. But he had stood close enough to this man to know his eyes were a dark blue, like the uncharted depths of an ocean, that his dark gold eyebrows had a touch of brown, that a small birthmark dotted an otherwise spotless back and that…and that… A soft whimper escaped his lips and he curled into himself, feeling naked and lost and alone.

One night, Victor pushed Sherlock onto his back, straddled his hips and impaled himself on Sherlock but wouldn't masturbate himself to completion. When Sherlock had come inside him and they had disposed of the condom, Victor lifted himself, crawled forward on his knees to hold his hips over Sherlock's face and watched as the curly head bobbed over him and wrung out his pleasure with that luscious mouth. He did that again the next six nights while Sherlock closed his eyes and lost himself to the man in his thoughts.

Victor had asked a few times if he could enter Sherlock. For some reason inarticulable even to himself Sherlock would not allow that. Not even with just fingers. Victor laughed off Sherlock's rejection saying his enthusiasm in all their other activities made up for that.

Sherlock finally left Victor's home in Belgravia after a month to go back to Baker Street where he fell into a bed that was not his, resting his head on a pillow that still carried forgotten traces of the fragrance of a shampoo that was burned in his memory. His hand moved between his legs, hard and fast, long and slow, his mouth open and gasping until he emptied himself onto the sheets with a sob, his mind's eye fixed on the same face, the man who had left but remained with him still. When he finished, the pillow was damp with his sweat and something else. He was astonished to discover that his eyes were leaking.

He looked out through the window into a bleak nothingness. A flash of lightning dispelled the unending gray for just a second, splitting the austere sky; the weeping clouds sang a lament with their tears. It rained water on the outside. It rained turmoil in his heart.

Sherlock called John but got his voicemail.

_John, I seem to have… changed. Something has become apparent to me that wasn't before. You haven't written to me in a while but I imagine that's because you are very busy with your residency._

_Victor and I have become very close. I'm not a…I'm not what I was when you left. I now feel different – older but not wiser, because I am very confused._

_I want to see you, John. I want to talk to you. Please call me or let me know when I can call you. I need to speak to you._

_Please._

Sherlock waited for John's emails. Sherlock waited for John's telephone calls. Neither came. A week later, he emailed John.

_John, have I done something to upset you? You've kept things right for me. You've kept ME right in the past. I need to speak to you. Please write._  
_-SH_

Three days later, Sherlock received an email from John.

_Hello Sherlock. I'm glad that Victor and you are getting on. I suppose Victor is *that* boy. He must be special. I hope he is worthy of you._

_Things are indeed very busy here so I am not sure when I'll get time to write to you again. Between work and my girlfriend, I have very little time to myself._

_I hope you are eating regularly and making sure to get some sleep once in a while. _

_Take care, Sherlock._  
_-John._

He replied immediately.

_You didn't tell me you have a girlfriend. Is she *that* girl? Have you forgotten me? _  
_SH_

He waited for an email which never came.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Victor took his yacht out into the English Channel. Sherlock stood at the bow, holding on to the handrail and leaning out over the water. His bare torso soaked up the noonday sun and flushed a warm pink. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, breathing through his open mouth and enjoying the stretch in the long column of his neck. The gentle breeze played with his curls and tingled over his cheeks and shoulders and chest. Victor leaned against the handrail beside him, sweeping his possessive gaze over his lover's slender profile outlined against the blue sea, watching his chest slowly expand on each deep inhale and then his subtly muscled flat stomach contract on each languid exhale.

'You're so lovely', he told Sherlock.

'So you always say', Sherlock muttered, his eyes still closed. He brought his head back up.

'I love you.'

Sherlock's eyes opened. He turned to Victor. 'Are you sure?' he asked after a beat.

'I'm sure.'

…  
'So…anything you'd like to say to me?'

'Erm…thank you, I suppose.'

Victor laughed. 'Only _you_ would thank someone for loving you. Now come here and give me a kiss, my beautiful.'

Sherlock obliged. A long while later, Victor pulled away, the sight of Sherlock's kiss-moistened lips sending a shiver of desire up his spine. 'I'll be back in a minute', he said and disappeared down the steps into the master cabin. When he emerged on deck again, he was holding something in his hand. A small black box. Sherlock immediately knew what it was.

'Don't', he said.

'Don't what?'

'You're going to ask me to marry you.'

'God, you're presumptuous!' Victor laughed.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. 'Am I?'

'No…you're not', Victor admitted sheepishly, 'but you just stole my thunder, you arse.'

'It was obvious', Sherlock shrugged, an apologetic smile softening his features.

'Fine, I'm obvious. But mind if I ask you properly? Just try to look surprised.'

'Victor…', he said, looking into his lover's hopeful eyes. 'Okay, I'll try.'

'You've never said you love me but I'm a guy who takes risks. No risk, no reward, right? So, here goes nothing.' Victor cleared his throat. 'Sherlock Holmes, you fascinated me from the moment I first saw you- stop that!'

'Stop what?'

'Rolling your eyes.'

'I wasn't rolling my eyes.'

'In your mind you were. Admit it.'

'Fine. I was rolling my eyes.'

'Don't do that, Sherlock. Don't make light of my feelings. Let me do this like I want to.'

'Sorry.'

'Okay, let's try this again… Sherlock Holmes, you fascinated me from the moment I first saw you eight months ago. I'm desperately in love with you and I want to marry you.'

'Victor-'

'It doesn't have to be right away', Victor offered quickly. 'I'll wait until you're ready for it but I _want_ to be engaged to you, I _want_ to call you my fiancé for as long as it takes me to call you my husband. I love you, Sherlock. So much. And I will spend every day of my life making you happy if you would do me the honour of marrying me.'

…  
'Victor, I- '

'Before you dismiss my proposal out of hand, just think about it. You are so, so special to me, Sherlock. And I promise life with me won't be such a terrible thing. You'll want for nothing material and I'll do what it takes to keep you happy in all other ways. If you want to move to Melbourne, we'll do that. If you want to stay in London, that's fine too. Take a few days and mull it over. Don't say anything now because I'm terrified that if you do, it's going to be a No. Will you at least think about it?'

'Victor…', he said unhappily, looking at his lover with sad gray eyes. He hated what he was about to do. What he had to do.

'Yes, my love…'

'Victor, I like you very much. And I don't like people easily. I generally detest humankind. But I like you. Genuinely. You're not an ordinary person in my life. You do know that, don't you?'

'But I'm not special?'

The yacht was silent but for the sound of waves gently lapping against its sides until a defeated sigh from Victor told Sherlock that his lover understood.

'And that's your answer.' Victor said in a desolate voice.

Sherlock's chest tightened with regret for wounding Victor like this. He drew him into his arms and kissed his lips tenderly as his lover's heart broke.

'I _am_ sorry, Victor', he whispered after a long time to the bereft man in his arms. 'I truly am.'

* * *

When they returned to London that evening, Sherlock headed straight back to Baker Street. He called John. A subtle distance had crept up between them since the arrival of Victor and the gulf had only grown wider with each passing week that they did not speak to each other.

Sherlock called John's mobile phone and, as expected, John didn't pick up. Then he called the main line at Glasgow Royal Infirmary and paged John, giving his name as Mike Stamford.

'This is John Watson.'

'John.'

'Sherlock! The receptionist said it was Mike. How- How are you?'

'I'm well, John. And you?'

'Can't complain. Why did you give your name as Mike?'

'Are you being deliberately obtuse, John? We both know you're avoiding me.'

'I'm not avoiding you.'

'You've hardly written to me since you left. You haven't answered any of my voice messages. That's avoidance.'

'I've, uh, I've just been busy, Sherlock.'

'With work and your girlfriend?'

'Just work. How have you been keeping busy?'

'Mostly solving cases for Lestrade.'

'Oh. That's great…'

'And Victor.'

'Victor, of course. That's terrific, I suppose.'

'I suppose. He said he loved me.'

'I'm- uh, I'm not surprised. Only an idiot wouldn't.'

'Don't be an idiot, John.'

…  
_I'm not_, John thought. 'Do you love him?' he asked.

'I don't think I have ever experienced love. Have- have you?'

…  
'Oh. You have. Tell me what you felt, John.'

'This is crazy. You're a twenty-four year old man. I'm not going to tell you about love.'

'And you're a twenty-six year old man who has known love. Tell me.'

'Read a book, Sherlock. There are thousands of books on the subject of love.'

'I won't read some strange author whom I don't trust when I have you. So shut up and tell me.'

'Fine! Berk. So…uh…I think, and this is just my opinion. I think it's love if, uh, if you don't want to change the person, you want them exactly like they are with all their idiosyncrasies and all their sweetness and brilliance. It's love if thinking of them fills you with a warm feeling; even things that infuriate you in the moment mean nothing in the grand scheme of things because you couldn't imagine yourself without that person, because that person is quite simply the breath in your lungs. It kills you to see them sad or hurt and you'd fight the world for them. It's love if your heart bleeds when you're apart and just the thought of being together again makes you heal.'

…  
'Sherlock, are you there?'

…  
'Sherlock…'

'I have loved.'

…  
John felt ruined. 'That's- that's great.'

'What if the person you love doesn't love you?'

…  
'John?'

'I'm here…'

…  
'John.'

'I'm here…'

'What do you do if the person you love doesn't return your feelings?'

'There's nothing to do, really. Love can't be forced and although it feels like you'll never survive their loss, you must because you love them. And when they find happiness, even though it is with someone else, even as you watch your own love hang at the gallows, you find it in your heart to be happy for them. Because love is seeing the one you love be happy and it doesn't demand reciprocation. Love just is.'

'Thank you, John. You have been most informative.'

'Happy to help', John said softly, hoping his despair had not bled into his voice.

'Victor asked me to marry him.'

…  
John's universe imploded.

'John?'

'Yeah, that's- that's just wonderful, Sherlock. Look- uh- let me call you back in a couple of minutes. Something's come up here.'

_Click._

A minute passed. Then another. And another. And another. Sherlock waited. And waited. Then ten minutes later…

_Ring._

'John?'

'Yeah, sorry about that. Had to attend to something quickly.'

'That was ten minutes.'

'It took longer than I expected.'

'Are you catching a cold?'

'No…no, I'm fine. I think the connection isn't very clear. So what have you decided?'

'I've decided I will marry for love.'

'I imagine marrying for love is one of the best feelings one will ever have. I am happy for you, Sherlock. Look, I've got to go, duty calls.'

'John, wait!'

'I'm sorry. I can't talk now, it's an emergency case. Goodbye, Sherlock… and congratulations.'

'What?'

_Click._

'John? Are you there? John!'


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi everyone: Just want to say THANK YOU to all you lovely readers who're reading and following this story and the two sweet things who are posting reviews on this fic. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to reply to reviews so I just wanted you to know I really appreciate your kind words. ****There's a lot more to come in this story. This story is up to 14 chapters at AO3 here (remove the spaces and replace the dot with an actual period) : archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002.**

**Have a wonderful day! **

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_'Goodbye, Sherlock… and congratulations.'_

_'What?'_

_Click._

_'John? Are you there? John!'_

* * *

'Dr. Watson! John, what's wrong?'

He looked up into the receptionist's concerned face. She was looking at his hand clutched tight around the telephone receiver. 'It's nothing, really. I'm fine.'

'You're not fine, John. What's wrong? Please tell me!'

'I'm fine. Really.'

'Alright, if you say so', she sounded unconvinced. 'Go take a break. I'll get someone to cover for you. And John, whatever it is, it's never worth it in the long run.'

_But this was worth everything. HE was worth everything!_

John stumbled back to his room and fell on the bed. He lay on his stomach, silent and still, his face buried in his pillow while his torso shook. When, a long while later, he rolled over to his back, his pillow was damp, his eyes were raw and bloodshot and his heart shattered inside him, piece by little piece as the past two years of his life flashed before his eyes.

He saw an unlikely but visceral bond form between him and an eccentric, antisocial genius. It began as a cinder inside him that ignited into flames with the arrival of Victor and then shrank into a small, flickering tongue of passion with the realisation that it was not to be. But his unspoken yearning had simmered under the surface all these months, soft and despairing, until a phone call extinguished it forever. Two years of his life disappeared into nothingness as he considered his lonely future, one that didn't include Sherlock.

* * *

John's six month term in Glasgow came to an end two weeks later. The Dean and his supervisors were extremely pleased with his performance and when they offered him a one-year extension, John accepted without a second thought. He had no reason to go back to London now.

_John, you were to have returned yesterday. Why the delay?_  
_-SH_  
_Sherlock, they've given me an extension for a year and I like it here so I'll be staying. You'll be busy in London anyway so it's all for the best._  
_Take care of yourself._  
_-John_  
_Stop this nonsense, John. What the hell is 'it's all for the best' supposed to mean? Come back. 221 B Baker Street awaits._  
_-SH_  
_Sherlock, things have changed. Surely you understand that it isn't going to be like it was at Uni. It can't be like that. We have separate lives now. You'll always be my friend and I'll never forget our time together but we both have to move on._  
_Goodbye, Sherlock._  
_-John_  
_Goodbye? What the fuck is this, John? Answer your bloody phone and talk to me. What do you mean by "goodbye"? You're coming back to London, to Baker Street. _  
_-SH_

John didn't respond.

Three days later, John received a page to proceed immediately to the reception area. The receptionist had sounded harried so he quickened his pace, running through a series of worst case scenarios in his head. _Was Sherlock injured somehow? Had he done something reckless? Was his mum okay? Was it Harry? _

'What is it?' John asked the receptionist who sat in frozen silence, looking at the wall behind John. He turned and saw a tall figure in a long coat glaring at him. That man could have been the Angel of Death.

'Sh-Sherlock! What are you doing here?'

'What are _you_ still doing here, John? You were supposed to return to London four days ago.' A blazing intensity radiated from his entire body. John knew Sherlock was all coiled anger ready to snap.

'I- hold on, let's go somewhere private', John said, walking to an empty examination room.

'Sherlock…I told you in my email that I've taken up an extension here. It's for a year and if things work out, I may be offered a permanent position on the staff.'

'I don't give a _fuck_, John. You wanted six months. I gave you six months. It's time to come back. You can find a job in London. You need to come back to Baker Street.'

'I can't Sherlock. I cannot go back on my commitment. How's Victor?' he asked, trying to change the subject. 'Where's your ring?'

'I didn't get engaged to Victor. He's back in Melbourne.'

'But- you said he proposed to you.'

'He did, but I couldn't marry him. He left for Australia the following week.'

'Didn't you love Victor?'

'No.'

'But you went out with him. You _slept_ with him.'

'Surely you are familiar with the concept of spending time and having sex with someone you like, sometimes very much, but don't love? Your numerous girlfriends will attest to your expertise in that area. Did you love them all?'

'No, but- '

The warmth in Sherlock's next words came as a surprise to John. 'Victor is a good man and I liked him more than most human beings but I didn't love him. Our association, as long as it lasted, was mutual. He was very disappointed but he understood. Any further questions?'

'No.'

'Do you have a new girlfriend?'

'No.'

'Then let's go back to London.'

'No, Sherlock. I can't. I'll have to be here another year.'

'Is that your final word on the matter?'

'It is…'

'In that case, there's nothing more to discuss', Sherlock said bitterly.

'Sherlock, ple-'

'My train leaves in an hour. I have to get to the station. Goodbye, John.'

A dramatic sweep of a dark woollen coat signalled Sherlock's exit. He was gone and John stood stupefied, unsure of what had just happened. Sherlock had not accepted Victor's proposal. He didn't love Victor. And now he had left. Either Sherlock respected John's decision to stay or didn't care enough for him to convince him to come back. Both possibilities were crushingly disappointing.

* * *

Sherlock pulled his phone from his coat pocket and dialled a number.

'Mycroft.'

'Brother dear, I haven't heard from you nearly in a year. What calamity have you brought upon yourself this time?'

'John Watson. He's accepted a one year extension in Glasgow. He should be back in London.'

'Perhaps the good doctor doesn't enjoy your company as much as you'd hoped', Mycroft chuckled softly.

'Mycroft, please don't try to be funny. It doesn't suit you. John should be back in London. He will not listen to me. Will you… help?'

'Fine. He'll be back in London. I'm warning you again, don't get involved.'

'I'm not involved.'

'Oh Sherlock, you've been involved since he first picked you up. I hope he makes you happy.'

'He will, Mycroft.'

* * *

Three days later, Sherlock received an email.

_Sherlock, the oddest thing has happened. I'm being transferred to St. Bart's in London and have to start there next Monday. The Dean of the hospital informed me yesterday. It's all very sudden but I was hoping I might be able to return to your flat, if the second bedroom is still available. If it isn't, I'll make other arrangements, no trouble at all._  
_-John_

John received a text a minute later.

_Our flat. The second bedroom is yours as long as I'm at Baker Street. When does your train arrive? -SH_  
_Thank you, Sherlock. My train arrives at 12:15 p.m. on Friday. -JW_  
_Thank you, brother. -SH_  
_They were very reluctant to let him go. I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock. -MH_


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 where it's up to 14 chapters (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period - archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002

I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN!

* * *

**Chapter 10**

The train pulled into St. Pancras station at twelve fifteen as scheduled, another punctual arrival by British Rail. John sat stiffly in his seat, staring blankly at his hands lying palms up in his lap. He thought about living with Sherlock again, about the inevitable struggle to suppress or move past his unrequited feelings for his flatmate. He wondered if Sherlock would be at the flat when he got there. _He's probably forgotten I'm arriving today._

The train came to a halt. John rose from his seat, slung his shoulder bag diagonally across his torso, grabbed a hold of his single large suitcase and climbed down from the coach into the bustling throng of alighting passengers. A disembodied voice announced the arrival of the train, galvanizing hotel porters to hasten with their luggage trolleys to the first class coaches and receive their guests. John looked about the station, searching for nothing and no one in particular. The city thrummed under his feet, its energy coursing through his veins till his pulse began to beat in rhythm with the distance, a tall pale man stood perfectly still in front of a pillar. That man cut an unattainably handsome figure in his long coat with its collars turned up around a blue scarf. John observed, with a small burst of joy and pride in his heart, that passersby unconsciously slowed down to gawk at the man with hesitant wonder. The man, however, was watching only John, indifferent to the waves of humanity that parted around him; then he left his post at the pillar to walk towards John and the crowds faded into insignificance. The air was charged with an electric awareness of each other. Just each other.

'Sherlock.'

'John.'

Sherlock held out his hand and John took it. Their skin still burned but this time, it was different. The handshake felt like an embrace, like a beginning.

'Let's go…home', Sherlock said, his voice breaking on the last word. He took hold of John's suitcase and wheeled it towards the exit. John followed quickly. A half hour later, John stood in the middle of the living room in Baker Street. Nothing had changed. The wallpaper was the same but for a smiley face above the couch, drawn with bright yellow paint. "Billy the skull" greeted him from the mantelpiece with his unchanging macabre grin. The jackknife was stuck in a pile of mail. John's red armchair was in its usual spot, facing Sherlock's black Le Corbusier. The Union Jack pillow sat upright in John's chair, ready to be his backrest just the way he liked. John turned around to face Sherlock who stood silently in the doorway, watching him.

'Welcome home, John.'

He nodded a few times, speechless as a multitude of emotions tangled in his heart and rose to his throat – affection, gratitude, relief, familiarity, apprehension and something else. 'Thank you, Sherlock', he choked out after a long moment.

'I should like to hold you. May I?'

'When have you ever asked for permission before?'

Two long steps later, Sherlock had enveloped him in his arms. 'Jawwn…' he breathed into John's hair.

'I missed you too, Sherlock', he whispered into a silken shirt, his arms wrapped around his friend's back.

'Hmph, I didn't even notice you were gone.'

'Of course you didn't', John laughed into Sherlock's chest, thrilling to his intimate manner.

The two men stood wrapped in each other for a long while.

_I thought I had lost you_, John thought.

_I thought you would never come back to me_, Sherlock arms tightened and his cheek pressed into soft locks of golden hair. Warm breath huffed on his neck and his chest heaved with contentment.

When Sherlock showed no signs of letting him go, John cleared his throat. 'Sherlock, you're happy I'm back and I'm happy to be back. Let's have some tea to celebrate, yeah? And then some takeaway?'

Sherlock reluctantly dropped his arms and released John. 'Thai?' he asked.

'Thai sounds good. You call the restaurant. I'm going to shower and then I'll make tea.'

_I'm home_, John thought.

_He's home_, Sherlock thought.

* * *

John showered, dressed and ventured into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and found it empty of victuals. _Nothing new there. Hello, what's this?_ A lone glass jar sat all the way back on the middle shelf. Small, pink objects were submerged in some form of clear liquid. _Prawns? Sherlock doesn't eat seafood. Pickled ginger roots? Unlikely._ He leaned in and peered at the contents only to recoil in horror. _Thumbs? Thumbs! The fucking madman!  
_  
'Sherlock!'

'What is it, John? Why are you shouting?'

'Thumbs!'

'What of them?'

'They're in the fridge! There's a bloody jar full of severed thumbs!'

'Calm down, John. I needed them for an experiment.'

'What kind of experiment requires storing a hundred severed thumbs in the fridge?'

'Sixteen and I was- '

'Stop. I don't want to know. There are body parts where there should be food, Sherlock. Your kitchen is empty!'

'You've always stocked our kitchen, John and you're back now. So…?'

'Yes, I'm back now and I'm going to Tesco because this is no way to live. Crazy wanker', he muttered.

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by John's outburst. 'Could you also get me three tubes of edible lube?'

'What?'

'Relax, it's also for an experiment. I wouldn't ask you to procure supplies to facilitate my sex life, John.'

'I should hope not!'

'So will you?'

'You have- ', John started but then gave up. 'Huh', he blew out an exasperated breath. 'Fine! Arse', he muttered.

'Did you just say I have a fine arse?'

_More times than you'd imagine_, John thought. 'You wish', he said aloud and left the flat before the conversation got any more questionable.

Maybe I do, Sherlock thought.

John returned an hour later carrying four plastic bags. He glared at Sherlock sitting in his chair, reading a book.

'Please, don't trouble yourself', he huffed, hoisting the bags and placing them heavily on the kitchen table. 'I'm fine, don't need any help.'

'Did you get the lube?'

'Give me a sodding minute' John snapped. He rummaged through the bags and pulled out five tubes of edible lube, all different flavours, and tossed them into Sherlock's lap.

'Five? I only asked for three.'

'You're going to ask for a fourth and fifth tube sometime soon and I'm not going back to Tesco to buy them. One protracted bout of embarrassment today was plenty, thank you.'

'Forward thinking. Very good, John', he said appreciatively and rose to inspect the rest of John's purchases. 'Pre-packaged food. Why?'

'So that I can heat it in the microwave and have a good meal once in a while. I'm not keeping food next to body parts.'

'Suit yourself. You know I don't eat unless absolutely necessary.'

'I'm back now, Sherlock.'

'Has stating the obvious become part of our conversational style?'

'No. I am back now, and you are going to eat. You're just skin and bones.'

Sherlock tossed his head back with a contemptuous grunt and marched regally into his bedroom but they both knew he had accepted that he was going to have to start eating.

* * *

John returned from his first day at Bart's to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, reading a book. _Does the bastard ever move?  
_  
'How was your first day, John?' Sherlock asked, lowering his book to his lap.

'It was good, really good. The other doctors seem like nice chaps. Mike's working in Radiology.'

'Yes, I have met him a few times there.'

'Why would you go to Bart's?'

'I use the mortuary and lab.'

'They let you in there?' John laughed.

'Steve, the special registrar in the mortuary, does.'

'Why would he?'

'He owes me a favour. I helped him put up some shelves.'

John bit the inside of his cheek. 'Is that a euphemism for sex?'

Sherlock looked at John, confusion evident on his face. 'Why would you think that?'

'Never mind', John muttered. He took a shower and padded into the kitchen barefoot. It was a warm evening and he craved a cold drink. 'Can't even keep a beer in this bloody fridge', he griped.

'I wouldn't say that', Sherlock called from the living room.

John opened the fridge hesitantly and, to his surprise, found it neatly stocked with fresh produce in the crispers, six cans of beer on one shelf, eggs and butter and a jug of milk. He looked down at the floor. A mini-fridge, about two feet high, stood next to the bigger fridge. Inside he saw the jar of thumbs sitting next to another clear plastic bag holding something he couldn't identify and decided it was safer not to know.

'When did you go shopping?' he asked, a warm feeling glowing inside him. _He cares_.

'This afternoon. I don't see why you make a production of grocery shopping, John, when it's actually quite simple.'

'In that case, I'm sure you wouldn't be averse to doing it off and on.'

'When my schedule permits.'

'Thank you.'

'For what? Buying groceries? Really, John, you're very easily satisfied with me.'

'No, you sweet nutter. For moving the fingers out and yes, also for buying groceries.'

'Moving the fingers was less of a strain than dealing with your psychotic outbursts every time you see human body parts. One would think you'd be able to deal with that better than most. You do claim to be a doctor, after all.'

'I _am_ a doctor, you arse. But I like to keep my corpses away from my food. That's hygiene, not a psychotic outburst. But thanks anyway.'

'Don't be boring.'

'Deal with it.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 where it's up to 14 chapters (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period - archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002**

**I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN! **

* * *

**Summary:** John has an U.M.Q.R.A moment.

**Chapter 11**

Lestrade had been engaging him on his most difficult cases and Sherlock was currently in the middle of a particularly tortuous investigation of a series of gruesome murders. John was still new at St. Bart's and Sherlock did not want to involve him in this investigation. So he visited crime scenes while John was at work and stayed up late into the night, poring over NSY reports and his own findings. One Saturday morning, John awoke to find a dozen books strewn on the couch and floor, opened to seemingly random pages. Sherlock had fallen asleep in his chair.

'The messy bastard', he grumbled at the untidy scene and went into Sherlock's bedroom to get a sheet to drape over his mad flatmate. He ghosted his hand over the disheveled curls that tumbled onto Sherlock's forehead, taking care not to disturb him and then turned his attention to straightening up the books.

It was noon when Sherlock finally stirred in his chair. 'Zhunn?' he slurred, staggering out of the chair, losing his balance and falling to the ground.

'Easy, Sherlock', John said and shot up from the table to steady his friend. 'Why won't you just sleep in your bed?'

Sherlock made a rumbling noise and leaned against John with his eyes closed while the spinning in his head slowly abated.

'When did you sleep?'

'Don't remember. I've got to crack this case.'

'I'll run you a bath. You can sit and soak while you figure things out. Alright? Let's get some tea in you first.'

'Coffee', Sherlock mumbled. Ten minutes later, he was sipping on coffee when John called out that the bath was ready.

Sherlock shuffled in and started to take his clothes off. John left the bathroom in a hurry and closed the door behind him. He sat at the table, reading the papers and only looked up twenty minutes later when the door opened again and Sherlock emerged in his red robe looking scrubbed, freshly shaven and alert. His nakedness under his robe was evident from the subtle bulge in the thin fabric between his legs where the silk exchanged a static charge with his pubic hair and clung to his bits. He followed John's unwavering gaze, looked down, looked up and slowly cocked his lips in a shameless lopsided grin. John was transfixed as Sherlock shook his head playfully so that his wet curls bobbed around his face. But when John swallowed, Sherlock noticed the jump in his throat; at once his eyes widened, his brazen smile disappeared and he blinked almost shyly. John decided to write off the jolt that ran through him as his heart doing a backflip, not his cock twitching to attention. _Perhaps it is both_, he thought. _This is not good._

Sherlock returned to the living room clothed in an impeccably tailored suit. He had a light shirt on this time, silver-gray with black buttons. John ran an appreciative eye over his stylish flatmate. _Gorgeous fuck. He knows exactly how delectable he looks._

'You'll eat?' he tried his most nonchalant voice. 'I've made pasta.'

'Yes, thank you', Sherlock said and sat down at the table.

He was chewing on his meal when he looked over at the couch. 'John!' he exclaimed, shooting to his feet. The chair's legs grated loudly on the wooden floor as it slid back roughly. 'What have you done with my books?'

'Sherlock, I- '

'_Why_ would you touch my things? Where are the books?' he demanded.

'They're stacked in your bedroom. I-' John tried to explain but Sherlock was inexorable.

'Stacked in my bedroom! There's a serial killer on the loose, John! And he's clever. Very clever. He's murdered nine prostitutes already and he's leaving literary clues to where he's going to kill next. I _know_ it's going to be tomorrow night because I spent _days_ identifying the books and passages and phrases in those passages. And I'm _this close_', he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart while his lips twisted bitterly, 'to knowing where he will be tomorrow and nailing the bastard. But of course, today is when you decide to _clean_! That's brilliant John! Really brilliant!'

'Sherlock, I was trying to hel-'

'How about next time you help me by not helping me? I thought you understood my methods, John! Have you learned _nothing_ of the deductive process from the cases we've solved together? Patterns and sequence are paramount!'

John stayed silent and listened to Sherlock express his disappointment in John with each cruel word optimally chosen to wound with maximum effect. He had never seen Sherlock angry before and it was brutal. When he was finally finished, Sherlock stood in the middle of the room.

'I'm going out. I need some air.'

'Stop', John said, his voice calm and authoritative and Sherlock stopped, the full force of his attention snapping to John. 'You've said your piece. Now it's my turn. The books are stacked in your bedroom from top to bottom in the same sequence in which you had laid them out from left to right. Each has a bookmark to where it was opened. I skimmed the pages and your notes. Your killer's quoted poems from each even year from eighteen-oh-two to eighteen-twenty but he skipped eighteen-sixteen', he said, bravely enduring Sherlock's blistering gaze even as his conviction withered inside him. Sherlock glared at him and John's self-doubt intensified. 'That's probably not relevant because if it were, you'd have thought of it already. Just thought I'd mention it anyway. Uh- yeah, not sure what I was thinking. Now I'm going out because _I_ need some air.' He grabbed his jacket to leave the flat but hesitated at the door. 'I'll be careful not to touch your things again, Sherlock.' His head dropped and his next words were soft with regret. 'I'm sorry if I messed up your analysis. So, um, I'll be off.'

Sherlock continued to hear John but stopped listening beyond "he skipped eighteen-sixteen". He knew John was on to something so he didn't follow his offended flatmate. He could placate him later. Women were being murdered. John would understand. This time, a quick search on Google supplied a list of poems published in eighteen-sixteen. _Oh. Oh! Kubla Khan!_ Samuel Taylor Coleridge's opium-inspired masterpiece published in eighteen-sixteen. "Xanadu" and "Paradise", from the first and last lines of the poem, were the names of high-class bordellos in South Kensington.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and typed out a quick text to Lestrade at NSY.

_Your killer's going to strike tomorrow night at either Xanadu or Paradise in South Kensington, more likely Paradise. –SH_

_We'll get the bastard this time. Thanks. –GL_

_I'll be at Paradise but have your men watch both clubs starting tonight. –SH_

_Thanks Sherlock. I owe you one. –GL_

_You owe John. –SH_

He texted John.

_Where are you? –SH_

_Out. I'll be late. –JW_

_Come back. –SH_

The day passed and Sherlock's phone remained silent. He texted John again at seven in the evening.

_When will you return? I've ordered dinner. –SH_

_You needn't have. I won't be eating. –JW_

_Don't be childish, John. –SH_

_Not being childish. Having dinner with friends. –JW_

_What friends? I'm home and I've ordered dinner. –SH_

_Friends from Bart's. –JW_

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. This simple truth cut into him. John had a life outside of Sherlock. He grabbed his coat and swept out of the empty flat. He didn't send any more texts that night.

* * *

John managed to avoid him all Sunday because Sherlock had been on the case with Lestrade but on Monday morning he was accosted in the kitchen when he came to grab breakfast.

'Lestrade caught the killer last night.'

'That's great. You solved it, of course.'

'I couldn't have done it without you.'

John blew out a sharp breath. 'You don't have to say that, Sherlock. We're fine…or we will be.'

'Don't be ordinary, John. I'm not saying it for us to be _fine_', Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 'I'm stating facts. You saw that eighteen-sixteen was missing. That's what triggered it.'

John overlooked Sherlock's snub because he was secretly thrilled that he had actually helped an investigation. 'So what was it?' he asked, intrigued now.

Sherlock's eyes glimmered as he explained. '"Kubla Khan" was one of the most famous poems published in eighteen-sixteen. It took less than a minute to conclude that the next target would be either Xanadu or Paradise, from the first and last lines of the poem. It was Xanadu.'

'That's really…brilliant, Sherlock! Yeah, that's great.'

'You do realise your pointer expedited the whole process.'

John shrugged dismissively. 'I suppose I did learn something of the deductive process from you after all.'

'John- I shouldn't have said-'

'It…doesn't matter now. I'll be off to work, then.'

'So I'll see you at dinner?'

'I- um, I have a date tonight.'

'Oh, okay. Have fun.'

'Yeah, thanks. I'll, uh, see you later, Sherlock.'

That evening, John showered and opened his closet to dress for his date. A flat gray-and-black box was placed over a stack of his neatly folded shirts. Opening it, he found it contained a navy blue jumper. Its quality was evident in the thick and soft ribbed weave and its price in its label. Fendi. He held it up against his torso; he would look very good in it. A soft rustle caught his attention and he saw a folded piece of paper had floated to the floor. It was a note written in Sherlock's precise handwriting.

_John,_  
_Forgive me. I deeply regret my harsh words. This is not a peace offering to end the awkwardness. Or maybe it is. I don't know how these things work because I've never apologised or tried to make amends for anything before. You've had to retire your old blue jumper but you should always have a blue jumper. I saw this on a mannequin and thought it would complement your eyes. I hope you find it acceptable. Your date would like you in it. I'm sorry._  
_–Sherlock._

John neatly folded the note and placed it in his closet. He buried his face in the jumper, unable to contend with flood of affection crashing through him. He picked up his phone and made a call. Then he wore his khaki trousers, a light blue shirt and the new jumper and walked into the living room.

'Well?' he asked Sherlock holding out his arms and turning around to show him the front and back.

'It is very flattering', Sherlock said appreciatively. 'Your date will definitely like you in it.'

'I'm glad you like it. I'm wearing it to Mint Leaf.'

'Is that where you're eating tonight?'

'That's where _we_ are eating tonight, unless you already have dinner plans.'

'No. No I don't', Sherlock hesitated. 'What about your date?'

'Cancelled. Now let's go, I'm starving!' he grinned. 'It's my treat.'

'You don't have to.'

'I want to. So shut up and move that fine arse!' John laughed.

Sherlock's answering grin could have floodlit a dungeon.

* * *

Two days later, Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom wearing a black silk kimono-style robe with gold piping and a large, honey bee embroidered in gold and yellow thread on the back.

'Really, John? I get you a classy jumper and you get me a robe with a bee.'

John could see through Sherlock's mock annoyance that he was clearly delighted with his gift.

'You thought I needed class. I thought you needed to loosen up. You're fascinated by bees and short of getting you an apiary, this is the best I could do.'

'It is not objectionable.'

'You mean you like it.'

'Isn't that what I said?'

'Not in so many words.'

'You should know by now that I never use so many words, John.'

John smiled and shook his head.

'Does this mean we are…good?' Sherlock asked uncertainly.

'You and I, we'll always be good, Sherlock', John said with a doting smile. 'How could we not be?'


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 where it's up to 14 chapters (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period - archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002. **

**I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN!**

* * *

**Summary**: Hello Harry...Harry knows best.

**Chapter 12**

'Sherlock.'

'Hmm?' Sherlock said absently. He was poring over a website on poisonous spiders on John's laptop.

'Harry wants to visit for a weekend.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked, still reading.

'Because she's my sister and she wants to see her brother, if that's alright with you?'

'Is she annoying?'

'Sometimes. But it's only for a weekend.'

'Fine.'

'Thanks.'

…  
'Will you try not to be an arse to her?'

Sherlock looked up. 'Wouldn't dream of it', he said, baring his teeth in an utterly phony grin for a second before his features settled into their usual why-do-I-have-to-put-up-with-the-world look of irritation.

'Yeah, that really gives me hope', John grumbled.

* * *

John went to the station to receive Harry. When they returned, Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, waiting for them. He shot to his feet in a smooth, lithe motion as soon as they entered, a blatantly disingenuous smile creasing the thin skin on his cheeks into long parentheses.

'So you claim to be John's sister', he accused, towering over her.

'I _am_ John's sister. Who are you? John, who is this? And what's he doing here?' she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

'My flatmate, Sherlock, remember? Sherlock, this is Harry.'

'This is your flatmate? Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective? The only one in the world? Most brilliant person you've ever met?'

'His ego could do without more fanning, thank you, but yes, this is Sherlock. Why is that surprising?' John looked bemused.

'Well,' Harry laughed, 'I just pictured someone older, not a posh boy in a designer suit who looks like he was born in Buckingham Palace and studied at Eton.'

'Harrow, actually', Sherlock corrected. 'And I was born at the Château d'Ussé in France.'

'I'm terribly sorry, I meant Harrow, not Eton', Harry said, mimicking his upper crust accent. 'And France, oh my!'

The air crackled with conflict as John's prickly best friend and pugnacious sister sized each other up. John was quite sure that Harry could level Sherlock with a quick uppercut to his aristocratic jaw.

'Cut it out, you two', he laughed. 'This is his flat, Harry; I'm just renting the second bedroom.'

'Our flat', Sherlock corrected him.

'He is generally suspicious of bipeds. Ignore him and he'll leave you alone in a bit.'

'I can't if he continues to loom over me like this. What do you want, Sherlock?'

'To ascertain if you are, indeed, John's sister.' His fake grin had given way to a look of distrust but Harry wasn't cowed.

'Who else could I be?'

'A foolish woman wanting to engage in romantic relations with John. It's hard enough finding women shorter than John so he might not want to let you go.'

'Are you mental? Is he mental? I'm John's _lesbian sister_! I've seen him in his nappies, you wanker!'

'Then you shouldn't have any trouble answering some questions. Let's start with John's date of birth.'

'What is this, some kind of quiz? John?'

'Just humour him, Harry. He's scary in the beginning and completely mad once you get to know him. That's as good as it gets', John laughed as Sherlock's six feet of skin and bones stared down Harry's fierce five foot three frame. He leaned against the table, settling down to be entertained.

'John's date of birth, please.'

'Eighth September, nineteen eighty-eight.'

'Favourite colour?'

'Navy blue.'

'Favourite food?'

'Jam on toast.'

'White or brown bread?'

'Brown. Twelve grain.'

'Favourite beverage?'

'Tea during the day, beer in the evenings, tea again before bed.'

'You do consume inordinate amounts of tea, John', Sherlock scolded his flatmate. 'Your teeth are going to yellow soon. Moving on - favourite music?'

'Motown.'

'Favourite musician?'

'Smokey Robinson.'

'Favourite author?'

'J.D. Salinger.'

'Favourite guilty pleasure?'

'Nineties love songs. He'll never admit to it but he listens to "Kiss the rain" on repeat. He's a bit of a romantic.'

'Hmm…I've caught him listening to "I'd die without you". Next – how did John get the scar on his right calf in nineteen ninety-nine?'

'Ah! Trick question!' Harry laughed. 'He didn't have a scar on his calf in ninety-nine. He got one on his left thigh from a rugby injury. I know because I took him to the hospital.'

'You're quite good!' Sherlock exclaimed in spite of himself. 'Why did John go to Glasgow when he could easily have found something in London?'

'To be with our mother who was ill at the time.'

'What? John!' Sherlock stopped short and turned to look at him. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'How would that have helped, Sherlock? You couldn't have done anything.'

'You idiot! How could you not tell me that? We tell each other everything! And your mother was ill! How heartless do you think I am, John? Idiot!'

'Sherlock, it's fine. He was with her when she needed help. Our uncle and he made sure she received very good care. Her surgery was successful and she was in recovery within a month of John going to Glasgow. She still lives there, two streets down from our uncle. It's all good. Really.'

'It still doesn't absolve him of keeping secrets from me', he grouched.

'Are we done with the inquisition?'

'Not yet. If your mother had recovered, why did John accept the extension in Glasgow?'

'You don't have to answer that, Harry', John warned.

She ignored John to answer Sherlock. 'You were with Victor.'

'Harry! Stop it!'

'If he came back to London, you would have insisted that he stay here with you and Victor and he felt he would be in the way or on the outside. Neither option was acceptable.'

'He told you that?'

'No. He told me you were with Victor. I surmised the rest. As you can see, I really know my brother.'

'Hmm', Sherlock nodded, as though his suspicion had been confirmed. 'Last question - is John gay?'

'No.'

'Your answers are consistent with my information on him.'

'But I've long suspected he's bi.'

'Harry! Shut up!' John snapped at his sister.

'Oh? That is interesting. He is very adamant about clarifying his sexual orientation', Sherlock remarked.

'Sherlock! Shut up! And will the both of you stop talking about me like I'm not in the room? My sexual orientation is nobody's business but mine!'

'What's the big deal, John?' Harry laughed. 'He seems to know everything about you already.'

'This is insane, Harry. Just stop talking.'

'So, Sherlock, did I pass? Or should I show you my Driving Licence?' Harry's smiling eyes flitted from Sherlock to John and back.

'Identification can be forged. However I am convinced, within an acceptable margin of error, that you are his sister.'

'I'm delighted. Now I'd like some time alone with my brother, if that's alright with you.'

'What for? As you said, I know everything about him already.'

'Fair enough. So are you and I good, Sherlock?'

'Not yet, but I suspect we will be, Harry.'

John watched, stupefied, as this bizarre exchange between his friend and his sister concluded with an uneasy truce. Sherlock showed no signs of clearing out but Harry didn't really mind. She seemed to actually _like _Sherlock and really, when was the last time thathad happened? Oh well, they made a curious trio.

* * *

Sherlock seemed somewhat restless when Harry and John briefly retired to John's bedroom. He didn't follow them there but brother and sister could hear him banging about in the living room, pacing the floor, tossing around what John thought sounded like the TV remote, dusting the book shelves although they needed no dusting and generally exhibiting clear signs of agitation.

'He'll drive himself nuts this way, Johnny.'

'He's always like that.'

'Really?'

'No, not really', John shook his head.

'Seems like separation anxiety', Harry said with a wink.

'Separation from _what_?'

'From _whom_ might be the better question, "Jaawwwn"', she teased.

John paused. 'Don't be ridiculous. He's a grown man. This is ridiculous. _He's_ ridiculous!'

'Let's go sit in the living room, Johnny.'

'No.'

'C'mon, don't be stubborn.'

'Why?'

'I think he's harmless', Harry laughed understandingly. 'A little odd and codependent, but harmless.'

John and Harry returned to the living room and Sherlock immediately calmed down.

'I thought you wanted privacy', he said. 'Do you want me to go to my bedroom?'

'No need, Sherlock. You just continue doing what you were doing and we'll chat here. Let us know if _we _disturb _you_, yeah?' Harry smirked.

'Yes. Yes, I'm working on an experiment and need to concentrate. Try and keep your _chatting _quiet, please', Sherlock grumbled, hunching over the microscope on the table.

'We'll try, Sherlock', Harry assured him, grinning at John. Sherlock continued his experiment while the Watsons conversed quietly on the couch.

* * *

On Friday evening, Sherlock took them to The Criterion, the trendiest club in Kensington because he knew John liked the ambience. He bought their drinks and stood a few feet away as they caught up on each other's lives. John's eyes snapped to him every couple of minutes, a sidelong glance which he was sure, or rather hoped, Harry wouldn't catch. When Sherlock was approached by two men in the space of six minutes, John's voice became a little reedy and his words frantic as he watched them converse. He relaxed only when he saw the men shrink from what, he thought gleefully, must have been a merciless verbal flogging from his friend. His relief was short-lived because Sherlock was almost immediately approached by a shorter, blond man and appeared to show interest, smiling and gesticulating with his hands. Four minutes later, John had had enough.

'Hold on, Harry', John said and pushed himself off his barstool to walk over to Sherlock as if on remote-control.

'Hey, Sherlock. Come join us.'

'Oh, alright', Sherlock said and turned to his blond companion. 'It was nice meeting you, Jon. Enjoy the rest of your evening', he smiled.

"Jon" smiled back, his interest clear in his blue eyes. 'Give me a call sometime, Sherlock. I'd really like to see you again.'

Sherlock nodded and his smile widened. John instantly decided he loathed this interloper, glaring at "Jon's" back as he turned to walk into the throng.

'John?' John demanded, cocking an irritated eyebrow so high it disappeared under a blond lock.

'Jon, not Jaawwn', Sherlock drawled, pronouncing John's name like only he did, teasing the vowel and caressing the consonants. John's legs felt drained. This particular homophone was unaccountably upsetting to him.

'Jonathan Cross', Sherlock elaborated.

'_Jonathan Cross_', John snarled. 'He was angling for you, you know?'

'I know', Sherlock smirked.

'And you let him.'

'I did.'

'When did _you _become Mr. Charming?' John groused as they walked back to where Harry was watching them quizzically.

'I can be charming, John. I just don't see the point of bringing out that side of me with you.'

'Why not? Don't I deserve your good side?'

'It's an act for outsiders. You get the real me.'

'You mean the acerbic genius real you?'

'Yes. Problem?'

'Why would I have a problem with that?' John snapped.

* * *

On Saturday, Sherlock bought them tickets for the London Eye because Harry had never been. He stood at one end of the capsule, allowing them a brief period of quiet privacy. John traced his friend's silhouette against the London skyline – the twilight sky above Big Ben, St. Paul's Cathedral and Waterloo station among others. But John's eyes were fixed on that most vital of landmarks – the figure of Sherlock Holmes. To John's longing eyes, London became so much more beautiful when it served as a canvas for Sherlock. He felt his pulse slow as he took in the intoxicating sight of Sherlock's profile contrasted against the purple and orange sky, the dark outline of a high forehead with unruly curls tumbling down to the eyebrows which sat above sharp cheekbones and sunken cheeks that caught light and shadow in a fluid play of white and blue and black tones, a patrician nose and soft, bow-shaped lips. Such perfect contrast, sharp and soft coming together to form the face of Sherlock Holmes. Perfection. His best friend was beautiful, indeed. He felt a pang in his heart and tore his eyes away to focus on Harry. She was watching him with a loaded smile.

'Sherlock', she called out. 'Come stand with us. The view's lovely on this side.'

Sherlock walked across the capsule and stood silently on John's right while Harry stood on his left. John's heart welled.

* * *

On Sunday, Sherlock took them to watch a movie. He sat three seats away from them to give them privacy. Harry decided that was just silly and asked Sherlock to come and sit with them. Sherlock rose and took the seat to John's right. Harry sat on John's left. John felt complete. He was happy.

In the evening, he ordered Indian takeaway for Sherlock and himself and Thai-Indonesian takeaway for Harry. Sherlock picked bits of food from both their plates as he paced the room, stopping to clack away on John's computer and alternating between shouting abuse at the television, berating John for his poor taste in entertainment and chastising Harry for being an apology for a sister, never specifying the particular areas of sisterhood in which he found her deficient. Neither sibling seemed to mind his prating. They looked at him indulgently, like he was some angry but adorable human torpedo zigzagging through the room, and let him vent. Finally, Sherlock ran out of steam and causes and curses and flopped down on the couch next to John who instinctively reached a doting hand to ruffle his hair but pulled back just in time. He shot Harry a quick, guilty look. She was watching him. Again.

* * *

The weekend came to an end and Sherlock's face softened into his first genuine smile at Harry when she stood at the door on Monday morning, ready to leave.

'I'd like a word with Sherlock alone', Harry told John. 'Is that alright?'

'Sure, if you think you'll be safe. He might just attack you. He bites heads. He's London's most notorious head-biter', John teased.

'John!' Sherlock admonished.

'My head will be fine', she chuckled, pushing her brother out. 'Now go.'

John stepped outside the flat taking Harry's bags with him.

'Sherlock', she said, her head at full tilt to look up at him. Her eyes were unsmiling. 'You're good for my brother.'

'I know.'

'He's good for you, too.'

'I know.'

'What is he to you?'

'My best friend', Sherlock said, unhesitatingly.

Harry continued to look directly at him, compelling him to acknowledge her unasked clarification.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he read her question and conducted an internal debate about whether or not he wanted to answer it. Then his eyes widened as he dropped all shields and made the first ever confession of his life.

'John is _everything_', he said in soft surprise, as though this were the first time he had admitted that truth to himself.

'Yeah…', Harry nodded sadly. '_I_ can see that but he doesn't. He's an idiot sometimes.'

'I know.'

'Take care, Sherlock, of yourself and of John. I'm very glad he has you and you have him.'

'He has me…always…but I have only him temporarily, insofar as one can have a best friend.'

'John is a challenge. But you love a challenge, don't you?'

'Not when I have no chance of winning', he said gloomily.

'You don't know that, Sherlock. You won't lose if you don't try. But you won't win either.'

'You are wiser than you look, Harry. You look like John, so it's not an insult. And you are a surprisingly agreeable sibling.'

'Why is that surprising?'

'You wouldn't ask if you'd met my brother', Sherlock laughed, a sincere, warm sound.

Harry melted at the sight of his face crinkled into genuine mirth and held her arms up for a hug. Sherlock folded down and pulled her into a tight embrace. The door opened again and John peeked in.

'Harr- what's going on? This is surreal, you know? The two of you hugging. Harry, you've got to go or you'll miss your train.'

'Bye, Sherlock', she whispered and pecked his cheek. 'You _must_ try.'

'I'll think about it. Goodbye, Harry.'

'You and Sherlock', she told John when he had shut the door behind him, effectively locking Sherlock inside his room to get five minutes of truly private time with his sister.

'What about us?'

'You and he seem to be in a perpetual embrace.'

'Shut up, Harry. We never touch.'

'It's a symbolic embrace. It's there and you know it. The way you circle each other, there's an ebb and flow to your combined movements like you have some kind of weird elastic connection. You're never more than a few feet away from each other.'

'He circles me. You've seen him, he's like a hawk! Or vulture.'

'Oh, you circle him too. You're always keeping him in your line of sight. In the Eye, in the theatre, in the club, in the flat. You're always looking _at_ him or _for_ him. You get upset when you can't see him. You get upset when other men come up to him.'

'I do not!'

'You just don't realise it because you're _in_ it. But an idiot with one eye and half a brain wouldn't miss it. Are you sure you're not falling for him?'

'Come on! You know I'm not gay.'

'You don't have to be gay or straight or _anything_, Johnny! Those are just labels. Sometimes, you find someone and just be who you need to be for her or him, it doesn't matter what sex they are!'

'I'm not his type, Harry', John countered, revealing the uncomfortable truth behind his reluctance. 'If you saw his last boyfriend, you'd know.'

'Are you really that daft? You're absolutely his type! You're in a category of _one_ because he can't look at anything or anyone else when you're in the room. He drinks you in with his eyes all the time. _All_ the time. He's addicted to you!'

'You're imagining things.'

'I'm not and deep down, you know I'm right. Touch him and you'll see. Touch him once, Johnny! He wants to be yours! A big sister can tell.'

'Thank you, big sister, but he doesn't. He just finds me useful and maybe likes me a little. Mostly because I put up with him.'

'Really? How does he react when you go out on dates?'

'I haven't dated much at all since I returned. And Sherlock's always got something going on.'

'So I suppose you prefer to be with him?'

'He is more entertaining than the women I meet.'

'Does he go out on dates?'

'It's not my business', John's answer came quicker and brusquer than he liked.

'Jealous much, brother? Can't stand to think of him on a date?'

'Stop it!'

'Don't be blind, John. See what's in front of you, waiting for you to just say yes.'

'Nothing's waiting for me, Harry. Nothing and no one', John said bitterly. 'You should hurry or you'll miss your train. Mwah', he kissed her cheek. Harry got into the waiting taxi and blew him a kiss as it pulled away.

John blew out a long breath and stepped back into the flat. _You're so wrong, Harry. _Sherlock was looking out of the window.

'Thank you, Sherlock.'

'For what?'

'For making Harry feel welcome and generally being...nice and doing things for her.'

'I did it for you.'

'I know.'

'No, you don't. You don't know anything', Sherlock sighed. 'I'm going out.'

'Do you want me to come along?'

'No.'

'Oh- okay.' The terse snub stung. 'Yeah, that's fine. You must have had enough of the Watsons.'

'John...I need to think. And you'll just distract me.'

'Sorry.'

'You're an idiot.'

'You're always right so I must be… Will you be back for dinner?'

'Yes.'

'Okay, I'll see you then. Don't get into any trouble.'

'I won't. I'll see you in the evening.'


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 where it's up to 14 chapters (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period - archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002

I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN!

**Notes**: Here's a teensy bit of frustration before... Thank you, sweet things, for coming back for updates. I know it's been a slow build but real life usually is, no? But we're nowhere near the end, btw :)

* * *

**Chapter 13**

It was two weeks since Harry's visit. John lay in his bed, pondering his sister's words and wondered what she had said to his flatmate. Something had changed between him and Sherlock since her departure.

For one thing, Sherlock was touching him a lot more. When John made tea and held out his mug, Sherlock's fingers touched John and lingered on his hand a few seconds longer than necessary while he openly studied his face. When John was cutting tomatoes in the kitchen, Sherlock came up behind him and pressed against his body to reach for something in the top shelf. John's hand tightened around the knife. One evening, John sat at the table, browsing news headlines on his laptop when Sherlock leaned over him, one hand on John's shoulder, the other covering John's hand on the mouse to guide the cursor to a headline on the screen – "Fluid sexuality – the fallacy of thinking you will be het, bi or gay for life".

'Could you forward this article to me?' he had murmured behind John's ear, his warm breath tingling against John's skin. 'Looks interesting, doesn't it?' He'd slid his hand down to John's wrist and grazed his finger over the rapidly jumping vein. _Elevated pulse, uneven breaths. Very interesting._

John had waited till Sherlock had pulled his body up and moved a few feet away. 'Sure', he gulped.

'Sorry for taking over the mouse.'

'I don't mind.' _God knows I don't mind! Jesus…_

John shifted in his bed as his mind supplied images of Sherlock's bare chest. He realised he had seen more of Sherlock's body in the past couple of weeks than he had in four months. It was almost as if the gorgeous bastard was inviting him to look.

Whereas earlier Sherlock always pulled on his robe or pyjamas and a t-shirt after a shower, he had started padding into the living room clad only in a small towel tied precariously around his waist and rubbing his wet hair with another to ask John questions that had not the slightest element of urgency. He dawdled long enough to allow John's hungry eyes to rake a guilty trail over his lithe form with its subtle musculature and dips and planes and long limbs. As a countermeasure, John had taken to reading in his bedroom, sitting upright against the headboard, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles while his notebook computer sat on his lap.

Whereas earlier Sherlock had never seen the need to consult John on his clothing choices, he had begun to seek John's view on what constituted appropriate attire for different venues and audiences such as clients, DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard or a club. As John tended not to be available in the living room, Sherlock would walk into John's bedroom to ask if his (unbuttoned) shirt matched his trousers. He allowed John time to deliberate his question, moving the open fronts of his shirt aside to put his large hands on his slender waist as he waited patiently for his answer. John felt hopelessly distracted but struggled valiantly to pull his eyes from the stark contrast of expensive black, blue, purple or crimson fabric draped over pale, almost translucent skin and give his opinion. Sherlock usually brought along a second shirt and if he sensed that John was ambivalent about what he had on, he evinced no qualms in taking it off and modeling the second shirt for him. John had started to place his notebook computer on a small throw pillow on his lap at all times to mask the inevitable stirring in his groin.

John sighed into his pillow. He turned to lie on his back and moved his hand down into his pyjamas. His fingers pushed into the bristly hair between his legs and had just approached his destination when he heard a soft knock on the door.

'Sherlock?' he called, pulling his hand out like he was burned.

The door was slowly pushed open and he saw his friend's silhouette framed in the doorway.

'What's up, Sherlock?'

'Nothing. I just wanted to see you.'

'Why? Can't sleep?'

'No. Is it alright if I lie here with you for a little while?'

John watched his friend in the darkness and read his unspoken entreaty. He could never refuse Sherlock, not even a request as unusual as this. Raising his head, he pulled out the lower of the two pillows he was using and lifted the covers in invitation. Sherlock sat in the offered space and swung his legs up to the bed. He lay back slowly, resting his head on the pillow. John turned to face the window and stare out at the sky while his mind and pulse raced. _Why is he here?_

A few minutes later, he felt the mattress move. Sherlock had turned to his side and John could feel his eyes burning a hole in his back.

'Sherlock', he said, not turning around.

'Good night, John', Sherlock muttered and got out of the bed. He left John's bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

John's heart raced in his chest. _What the fuck is happening to me? He's noticed me noticing him. I know he has! Why else would he come here? Harry was wrong. He knows he could have touched me if he wanted, but he didn't. He doesn't want me, yet my body reacts to him. Then there's that bloody article on fluid sexuality. What the fuck was that about? He's fucking with my mind, the bastard._

On the other side, Sherlock rested his head against the door; his fingers were tight around the doorknob and his eyes were screwed shut as if in pain. _Would you have let me touch you, John? Oh god, I want to touch you. John. John._

* * *

Three evenings later, John went on a date with Dr. Gillian Miller, a pediatrician at St. Mary's Hospital, whom he had met at a local conference a month back. John told Sherlock he was going out for a pint with some doctors from St. Bart's.

John sat across from Gillian at Angelo's. The owner came up to John, a smile lighting up his rotund face.

'John! Ah, it's good to see you. How are you?' he asked, placing a candle on the table and lighting it.

'I'm well, Angelo, thank you.'

'And how is Sherlock? I haven't seen him in a long time.'

'Really?'

'Yes! The last time he was here was with you months ago. He seems to have disappeared after that.'

'That's strange. But he's fine, too, thank you for asking.'

'That's wonderful, John. It's strange to see you without him. You and he were always…inseparable, you know.'

'Not sure I do', John laughed uncomfortably.

'Well, I'll leave you with the menus and be back when you're ready to order', he said genially and floated off to tend to his other patrons.

Gillian was watching him quizzically.

'Sherlock? That wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?'

'The same', John confirmed.

'Oh.'

'Yeah, we're flatmates. Met in Uni.'

'Inseparable flatmates?'

'Just flatmates.'

'I've seen his picture in the papers. He's gorgeous.'

John wasn't sure what she was implying. 'As are you', he said, a flirty smile playing on his lips as he skillfully changed the subject. Gillian took the bait and the conversation steered to their work and family and all things ordinary. Two hours later, John decided Gillian was nice and sweet but there was no spark and he wasn't attracted to her. In fact, he hadn't been attracted to women for nearly a year. Their date came to a natural end and John bid Gillian goodbye. Angelo's was four kilometres from Baker Street and he walked home slowly, fighting the demons in his head.

_My interest in women has obviously waned. God! I crave a man's body against mine. Why? Fuck. Why am I obsessed with having the masculine scent of another man rub into my skin? God, I want to run my fingers over a flat, muscled chest. I want to see pale skin stretched over thin ribs spotted with tiny brown constellations. I want to bite that flesh and leave purple marks with my teeth. I want to plunge my hands into thick, dark curls and yank that beautiful head down to me and see those unearthly gray eyes close as I engulf that arrogant mouth with mine. Oh god! I want him, I want him! What the fuck am I going to do?!_

When he entered the flat, Sherlock was looking out of the window.

'You had a date with Dr. Gillian Miller', he said, still facing the window

'Yes. Yes, I did.'

Sherlock turned around. 'Why did you tell me you were going out for drinks with your doctor friends?'

'I don't- I don't know', John faltered.

'You've never lied to me about your dates before.'

'I know. I'm sorry. I really don't know why…it's silly, now that I think of it.'

'It is. Anyway, I have a date tomorrow.'

'Great', John said sullenly.

'You'll meet him. He'll be here at seven.'

'Even better', John groused.

Kieran Slattery came to 221B the following evening. He was as tall as Sherlock and blond with hypnotic olive-green eyes. He was striking. He made pleasant conversation with John while Sherlock dressed in his bedroom. John learned he was an astrophysicist who had met his flatmate at a club. Sherlock finally emerged a half hour later, wearing a dark Westwood suit over a shirt of gray silk and black buttons. His curls were stylishly tousled and both John and Kieran found their mouths open. A hint of ridiculously expensive cologne wafted past John as Sherlock walked up to Kieran.

'Hello', he said to his date.

'Hi Sherlock', Kieran grinned like he had won the dating lottery.

'Shall we?'

'Yes, yes, let's', Kieran answered hurriedly.

'John, I'll be late.'

'Yeah, ok. Have fun, Sherlock.'

_Without you_, Sherlock thought. 'I will', he said.

Sherlock and Kieran left the flat and John collapsed on the couch. _I can't have him. Oh god, I want him. Fuck._

The next morning, John walked to the kitchen and found Sherlock making coffee for himself and tea for John.

'Had fun last night?' he asked.

'It was alright.'

They didn't speak again all day.

That evening, Sherlock had another date, Richard Davenport this time. Richard was a couple of inches taller than Sherlock, dark haired with honey-coloured eyes. He told John he played cello for the London Symphony Orchestra and had met Sherlock and Victor at the Perlman plays Paganini concert. John made sufficiently appreciative noises while they waited for Sherlock, accepting, as his last flicker of bleak hope died, that his flatmate only dated stunning men. Then Sherlock walked out of his bedroom and it immediately became clear who was getting the better deal that night. Sherlock looked like the brand ambassador for Spencer Hart suits. He had worn a purple shirt, the top two buttons of which were undone. John glimpsed the swell of lean muscle in the shadow between shirt and skin. His breathing grew labored and his skin felt like it was on fire. He looked away, unable to quell the desire surging through him for his unattainable flatmate.

'Hello', Sherlock said to his date.

'Hi Sherlock!' Richard exclaimed greedily, his lusty eyes drinking in the sight of Sherlock's splendid body.

'Shall we?'

'Yes, yes, let's', Richard answered hurriedly.

'John, I'll be late.'

'Yeah, ok. Have fun, Sherlock.'

_Without you_, Sherlock thought. 'I will', he said.

Sherlock and Richard left the flat and John collapsed on the couch. _I can't have him. Oh god, I want him. But he'll never want me. Look at the men he dates. How could he? Harry was so wrong. _His insides ached with want and despair. _I'll never have him. Will another man do? Any man?_

The next morning, John walked to the kitchen and found Sherlock making coffee for himself and tea for John.

'Had fun last night?' he asked.

'It was alright.'

They didn't speak again all day.

John paced in his room, digging his fingers into his palm and gnashing his teeth. His craving for physical intimacy was debilitating.

_Whom am I fooling? I want sex. With Sherlock. I want Sherlock. I need him. I want to sink into him repeatedly and lose myself. I want to own him and belong to him. Oh god, god, I'll never have him._

Masturbating to thoughts of a naked and writhing Sherlock was proving to be deeply unsatisfactory. The next best thing, he decided, would be raw, animal sex with a man to purge himself of this craving. Medically, he knew exactly how it was done but had never actually indulged in it himself. _Fuck it. It's sex, not rocket science. I'm going to fuck a man and then let a man fuck me. But first, I need to find a man._


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 where it's up to 14 chapters (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period - archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002

I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN!

* * *

Summary: At long last, one of them snaps.

* * *

**Chapter 14**

_Fuck it. It's sex, not rocket science. I'm going to fuck a man and then let a man fuck me. But first, I need to find a man._

* * *

John went out three nights in succession to a gay club. He showered and changed in the hospital because he couldn't bear to return to the flat in the evening and meet another of Sherlock's perfect dates.

Each night, a minimum of five men approached him. Each night, he chose the one man who had appealed to him above the other suitors that same evening and spent time with him. He asked his companions about their lives and interests and spoke to them about his, not realising that every second sentence contained a reference to Sherlock. He drank and laughed until he wearied of the pretence and ended the date. A tall man stood at the bar with his coat collar turned up into his dark curls, watching John and his date from a distance.

On the third night, John sat across a tall, thin man with large gray eyes. They reminded him of another man although that man's eyes were almond-shaped. John saw his date's hand resting on the table in a loose fist. He had long bony fingers that reminded him of the other man's hands. That man played the violin and could make John's heart sing with his music.

'Do you perhaps play the violin?' John asked his date, reaching out to touch his hand. At the bar, the tall man observing them felt his heart ache as he lost John to the stranger. His fingers tightened around his glass; he closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. It was a hiss of pain. He placed the glass carefully on the bar, paid for his drink and left.

John returned home around nine thirty that night, defeated. These strange men left him unaffected and he feared it would shatter their friendship if Sherlock discovered his feelings. But their friendship was a farce now and was doomed and he knew he would break when Sherlock found that one man who would sweep him off his feet. Yet he didn't have the resolve to walk away first.

Sherlock didn't turn around when John entered. He stood at the window, his back to the door, playing his violin.

'You've run out of women in London', he declared as soon as John stepped inside the living room.

'What?' John stopped by the door.

'Let me rephrase that', Sherlock drawled and slowly turned around to face John. 'Are there no more women left for you to date in London?' he asked, carefully placing his violin in his armchair.

'What? Why would you say that?'

'You're dipping your toe into the pool of men. That's why.'

'How do- have you been following me?'

'I am gay, John. I visit gay clubs. Barcode is one of my favourite haunts. I've seen you there the past three nights.'

'I- uh, I'm not sure why that should matter to you. I don't want to talk about it.'

'You're going to have to. I thought you were straight.'

'Sherlock…please. Look, I'm not even sure what's going on with me, alright? My head's all buggered up. I'm confused and…please- I don't want to discuss this.'

'Why Barcode?'

'You know why.'

'Because that's where I was stabbed and you came to get me. The first time.'

'Yes.'

'Why men?'

'Just let this go, alright? Please?'

'No.'

John sighed. 'I'm having no luck with women.'

'You have always had better than average luck with women, even those who are taller than you. I can't believe they don't fancy you.'

'They do. I don't fancy them. And Harry said some things to me. So I- I don't know. Maybe there was something to it. I thought- come on, Sherlock! Don't make me talk about this!'

'Finish your thought.'

…  
'John, there should be no secrets between best friends. And you know there's _nothing_ about you that I will ever find distasteful.'

…  
'I wondered if I am bi-sexual. So I went to the club to find out.'

'Is that really why you went there?'

'No.'

'So why did you go?'

'I wanted to cure myself of an obsession.'

'Explain.'

'I've recently been obsessing over men.'

'You have a type.'

'A type? I didn't notice a type.'

'Your dates were all at least six inches taller than you, thin and dark haired. Their eyes were blue, green and gray. You spent the most time with today's date – the man with gray eyes and curls.'

'As always, you observe things which even I missed.'

'You held your date's hand tonight. Why?'

'You saw that?'

'I did.'

'Then you must have seen that I just touched his hand and pulled back.'

'I didn't.'

'You were spying on me, weren't you?'

'In a manner of speaking…but I left when I saw you touch him...It was hateful.'

'Sherlock…'

'So, you're dating men now.'

'Not really. I'm still looking but I might, if I find someone.'

Sherlock turned to look out of the window. John stared at his back. The minutes crept by achingly slow in the uncomfortable silence. The air felt stifling to John until Sherlock spoke again.

'Why not me?'

'What…what did you say?'

'You heard me perfectly well.'

'I don't care. Repeat that.'

'Why. Not. Me.' Sherlock's voice was unnaturally taut. 'I fit your type. So what do these men have that you look at them like that?'

'Sherlock!'

'I can guarantee that ninety percent of single men in any club I go to will want to date me', Sherlock's voice was raw. 'Why don't you?' His chin wobbled.

'Sherlock- oh god! what are you saying?'

'Surely you're not that dim, John. I'm not going to spell it out for you.'

'You're going to have to. You forced me to talk about this. No secrets, you said. It's your turn.'

…  
'Sherlock.'

'You don't find me attractive. Why?'

…  
John laughed softly, ruefully. 'Sherlock, you're a vision! A miracle. If anyone could be almost universally attractive, it's you! You can have anyone you want! I mean- look at you!'

Sherlock shrugged. 'What's your point?'

'My point is…why would I think you'd pick _me_? I'd have to be crazy to hold out hope.'

'That's ridiculous!'

'Is it, really? Look at it from my perspective. Victor – tall, handsome, rich, smart Victor who looked like he'd stepped out of GQ – loved you but he couldn't win you. Kieran, Richard and who knows how many other paragons you've dated. Astrophysicists and symphony cellists and whatnot! You have a type too, and I'm not it!'

Sherlock blew out a sharp breath in frustration. 'And where do you suggest I find someone else like you?'

John gaped at him uncomprehendingly.

'Victor didn't win me because Victor's _not you_. Kieran and Richard are _not you_.'

'And who _am _I, Sherlock?' John asked miserably. 'From where I see it, I'm just your friend. I'm just John', he sighed and looked down at the floor.

'You're not "just John"! Are you daft?'

'Sherlock!'

'You're…you're "Jaawwn".' He made an oblation of John's name, like it was precious, a prayer, his universe. 'You're…_you _and that's enough', his whispered words shook. '_You_ are enough for _me_', he added.

'Sherlock- I-'

'Until now, I believed you when you said you're not gay. So I kept my distance. You're obviously not straight. So I'll ask again – why not me, John? What don't I have?'

'You have _everything_. You _are_ everything! But I can't endanger our friendship by feeling like I do! And I could never be just _casual_ with you. Do you see?'

'You feel something? For me?' Sherlock asked incredulously.

'Oh god, Sherlock! You see through most people in seconds. How can you not see through me, whom you know so well?'

'Because I can't think clearly around you! I feel defective because you've put my mind in a haze. My brain stutters when I see you.'

'Are you saying I've dumbed you down?' John asked, reflexively pulling his chin down and looking up at Sherlock. The hurt in his voice carried through in the fractured upward inflection of the offending phrase.

'No! God, you're an idiot!' Sherlock voice rose. 'No-, that's not it', he said, softer now. 'You- when I look at you, sentiment clouds my intellect and I'm left grasping at shreds of rationality. You fill my senses. You fill my mind.'

'Oh.'

…  
'"Oh" is right', Sherlock agreed.

The two friends stayed rooted to their spots for a long time.

'Sherlock…what do you want?'

'You know what I want. Do you want it too?'

'More than anything else in the world.'

'I'm sensing a "but" at the end of that sentence.'

John huffed, just a short bitter exhalation. 'But…I am terrified that it could destroy our friendship.'

'How so?'

'If this goes wrong, whatever this is or ends up becoming, we may not be able to survive it and our friendship may end.'

'We have to take that chance, John! We haven't been just friends for some time now. Surely you aren't still fooling yourself.'

'It's becoming harder every day.'

…  
'Since when?' Sherlock asked. John knew what he meant.

'Since the day I left for Glasgow. You held me in your arms on the landing and I wanted you to never let me go…I never wanted to let you go.'

…  
'And you?' John asked.

'Since you explained love to me on the phone. I was always confused, even when I was with Victor but that day…'

…  
'That day…when I told you I'd marry for love, you said "then I'm happy for you."', Sherlock recalled John's words. 'You held your tongue because you thought I would be happy. You were letting me go.'

John nodded his affirmation.

'You've always been an idiot', Sherlock chided him fondly.

John nodded again, in agreement this time.

'But you're my idiot', Sherlock mollified him.

'Do you think this could work?' John asked. His head was bowed but he lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock through his lashes. He looked nervous.

'We'll make it work. You and I have taken down corporate embezzlers, illegal poker rings and serial killers. What's a relationship?' Sherlock's timorous voice belied his brave smile. 'And we have time. I'm not letting you go anywhere.' John saw fearful hope in his beautiful eyes. 'We'll make mistakes, of course. But we'll fix them. We'll meet each other all over again and this time it will be different. It will be _glorious_', he assured John.

'Right. That's good. Great, in fact', John nodded tightly. The words had ended and the silence grew awkward. There was only one thing to do now. 'Tea?'

'Two biscuits for me?'

'Of course.'

'I was following you.'

'I know.'

'I ended my dates with Kieran and Richard an hour after I left.'

'Oh.'

'I haven't slept or wanted to sleep with anyone since Victor. Except with you.'

'I haven't slept or wanted to sleep with anyone since I left for Glasgow. Except with you.'

'Your girlfriend?'

'That lasted a week. Hmph, big surprise.'

'So you lied about being obsessed with men. It was one man.'

'Indeed.'

'I was your obsession.'

'Still are', John mumbled.

'Good.'

Neither Sherlock nor John mentioned that they still hadn't touched. They had time. This was just the beginning.


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing this story. It's being cross-posted on AO3 at (remove the spaces and replace "dot" with an actual period) - "archive of our own dot org / works / 1942002"

I can read and respond to your reviews there. THANKS AGAIN!

* * *

**Chapter 15**

_Neither Sherlock nor John mentioned that they still hadn't touched. They had time. This was just the beginning._

* * *

They had not touched and consequently thought about little else all night as they shifted restlessly in their own beds.

They faced each other again over breakfast the next morning. As was their routine, John first took his mug of tea and Sherlock's mug of coffee to the table. In the background, the toaster dinged; he went back to the kitchen and returned with a tray on which sat two eggs, four slices of toast – two whole grain and two white, jam and butter. Sherlock was already at the table reading the papers. He had showered and was wrapped in his black honeybee kimono. It had become his favourite robe of late. John stole a glance below the table and saw he had worn pyjamas but his torso was bare under the silk and the soft black material rested in blinding contrast over his pale skin. The long fingers of one hand absently reached into the neckline to scratch at an imaginary itch and then retreated, leaving the fabric pulled aside to expose the beginning of a long and prominent collarbone. Sherlock shot a fleeting look at John's face and his cheek lifted with a lopsided smile. John was staring with parted lips at his neck, unaware that he had been found out. Sherlock pretended to read until his coffee mug was placed before him. Not looking up, he held out his hand in a wordless directive to John to give it to him.

'Pampered arse', John grumbled, picked up the mug by its handle and pressed it into the curve of Sherlock's open palm. Sherlock slid his palm over the mug to hold John's wrist. John's fingers tightened around the handle.

The newspaper was slowly lowered and John looked into gray pools of hooded desire. 'We are going to touch sometime today, John. You're only delaying the inevitable.'

John's heart pounded in his chest from a mixture of lust and shame, little realising that Sherlock was picking up his racing pulse at his wrist. _Great. I am an adult with the physical reactions of a teenager. Hope I don't come in my pants._ 'Fuck', he muttered, looking down at the table.

'Eventually, yes', Sherlock assured him, 'but I thought it's customary to begin with a kiss.'

John started and his eyes flew up to look hungrily at Sherlock's mouth which seemed to blossom under his gaze; it opened just a fraction and his pink, wet tongue snaked out to tease the corner of a flushed pair of lips. John bit hard on his lower lip.

'Stop that, Sherlock.'

'Stop what?' Sherlock asked innocently, still holding John's wrist. They both looked down to where their hands were joined. Sherlock withdrew his hand and John placed the mug on the table.

'Seducing me… I have to go to work.'

'No reason we can't kiss once before you leave.'

'Tonight. I need to be able to focus on my patients.'

'I'm not a patient man, John. You know that.'

'Sherlock…'

'What is it? You have kissed before. You're no blushing virgin. Well, only one half of that applies because you are blushing.'

'I'm not a virgin', John laughed. 'And I'm blushing because it's _you_. I feel I know you so well and then I don't know you at all like- like _that_.'

'What is your quandary?'

'My quandary is I want to kiss you till we're both dizzy but I don't know how to start.'

'I'm not going to write you a manual, John! It's just a kiss. We press our lips together and let our bodies dictate what happens next.'

'It's not _just_ a kiss, Sherlock! It's my first kiss with _you_. I've fantasised about it and I'm just- I don't know, alright?'

'Well, if you're going to hem and haw like this', Sherlock said and rose from his chair to step over to John's side, 'I think I'm going to have to take charge and- ', Sherlock folded down to press his lips to John's. He felt John stiffen and immediately froze. _Does he feel rushed? Bloody hell, I rushed him. I'm a randy bastard. _But then he felt a sigh of pleasure against his lips and John's hand came up to cover the back of his neck and pull his head down closer.

When John's lips began to move against Sherlock's, the walls they had put up began to crack and then shattered as the agonising temptation denied for months and months came crashing through. Sherlock moaned, a ragged sound of pain, and pulled John to his feet. He wrapped his arms around John's back and wrenched him close, crushing him against his body. 'Open your mouth, let me in, John, let me in', he implored and pushed his tongue between John's trembling lips, licking inside his wet warmth. He sought John's tongue and found it, running the tip of his tongue along its length slowly, lovingly. _John, John, John,_ his mind chanted_._ Then John was inside his mouth, he was against him, around him, under him. Oh god, he was everywhere!

They had time. They had all the time in the world. But Sherlock was not a patient man. He tormented John, he tormented himself, stabbing his tongue in for a few seconds and John felt his mouth being meticulously fucked; but then Sherlock lengthened his caresses and John felt adored and cherished and he let his lanky lover know with a long, shaking sigh. Sherlock could sense he was still hesitating so he pulled his tongue back and whispered against John's quivering lips, 'Don't think, John. It's me, just me. Kiss me, John!' he urged, the sonic tendrils of his smoky words seeping through John's skin. Sherlock felt John's uneven breaths against his cheek and gasped when his lover – _oh god! John is my lover! My lover! My friend, my heart, my lover, my love, I can touch him, I'm touching him, I'm kissing him. Don't stop, John. Don't stop kissing me. Love me, John! Please, love me _– became more vocal and pressed against him and kissed him back, soft and needy licks devolving into manic, wild nips and bites and sucks that took as much as they gave, wounding as much as they pleasured. John's unrestrained sobs of want flowed from his mouth into Sherlock's and electrified his nerve endings.

Ten minutes of bobbing heads, broken sighs, shared wet whimpers and frantic groans later, the two friends, the two lovers allowed their mouths to separate but still held on to each other, shaking. It was not enough. It would never be enough. They brought their lips together over and over, feeling each other, saying everything they needed the other to know with their gasps and touches. There were no more pretences, just the truth of their hearts conveyed by their hungry lips.

Sherlock pressed his lips one last time to John's and then looked into his eyes. 'Not that complicated, was it?' he asked breathlessly, his hair utterly rumpled by John's roaming hands. An arrogant and absolutely incandescent grin wobbled on his lips, his red, bitten lips. He looked beautifully debauched. He looked as ravaged as John felt.

John simply gaped at him in disbelief. _I kissed that mouth. I bit those lips. Can I do that again? _He stood on tip-toe and pressed his lips to Sherlock's and sucked and nibbled lightly on his plump lower lip. _I can. Oh god, I can. You let me kiss you, Sherlock. Can I also tell you I love you? Will you hate that?_

John's direct gaze was disconcerting in its unbounded adoration. 'Was that- good?' Sherlock asked tentatively.

John shook his head slowly, incredulously. His impaired mental acuity manifested in a mortifying inability to confine his thoughts to his mind. 'No. That wasn't good, Sherlock. It was _spectacular!_ It felt like my first kiss ever. It felt like I'd never been kissed before, and I have kissed a lot!'

'Shut up. I don't need to know about your promiscuous past', Sherlock snapped.

'No, you need to know. You're like no one I've ever kissed before, Sherlock. You are magnificent in everything you do. Kissing is just one more thing you do marvelously. Your tongue is an oral sex organ. It does dirty things to me. You kiss like the god of sex', he babbled, staring at Sherlock as though he were a mythical embodiment of passion whose sole purpose for existing was to provide John sexual gratification.

'That's because I _am_ the god of sex', Sherlock preened in his robe which was beginning to separate around the burgeoning tumescence between his legs. He was visibly pleased with John's hyperbolic assessment of their snog and, unsurprisingly, very satisfied with his own performance.

John immediately wondered if _he_ had been found wanting. 'And uh- was it- I mean did you...like-'

Sherlock was, at the time the question was posed, engaged in running his fingers through John's hair and down his cheeks and seemed to find John's right earlobe particularly fascinating because he was wetly tracing its shape with his oral sex organ. John's eyelids fluttered and he struggled to regulate his breathing. Sherlock reluctantly took a break from caressing John's earlobe to breathe his response into his skin. 'It was exactly as I expected it to be.'

'Oh.' John said, his voice and shoulders dropping in disappointment. _Of course. What was I thinking?_

Sherlock covered John's mouth with his. His lover was unaware of his own magnetism. He would have to explain. He found explanations tedious but this was John and nothing was unpleasant when it came to John.

'It was _perfection_, John, as I knew it would be', he said softly against John's lips. 'I kissed _you_. How could it not be perfect?' Then he cradled John's face in his large hands and said, 'Yours is the only mouth I have wanted to kiss for a long time and after today, it is the only mouth I wish to kiss until you tell me to stop. Don't tell me to stop.'

'Well', John smiled smugly and cleared his throat. His resurgent confidence notwithstanding, Sherlock did 'cocky' way better than he could ever hope to. Still, he tried. 'I _have_ been called a good kisser- '

'Shut up and go to work', Sherlock grunted and abruptly released John from his embrace.

John teetered a little, finding Sherlock's kisses had drained his legs of their strength. One hand grabbed the back of the chair to steady himself and he grinned mawkishly at his lover, carding the fingers of his other hand through his disheveled hair to restore some semblance of decency. It wouldn't do to look utterly sexed out at work. All the while he leered at Sherlock with a mix of grateful salaciousness or salacious gratitude – the proportion of the constituent sentiments shifted in concert with his gaze moving from Sherlock's lips to his eyes and back. Sherlock handed him his bag, turned him around by his shoulders and pushed him out through the door.

'Leave now and wait till this evening or I'll take you to bed for the next four hours and I guarantee you won't be able to walk after.'

John grinned at him like an idiot. 'I can hardly stand now. But uh, can I kiss you one more time?'

'No.'

John stared at Sherlock hopefully but he wouldn't relent.

'No.'

'Oh, okay. Alright. I'll see you in the evening then.'

'Yes', Sherlock nodded tightly.

'Bye', John said softly.

'Yes, please leave now.'

John turned around and climbed down the stairs. He had reached the first landing when the door opened. He saw a blur of black floating towards him and then he was being crushed by long arms against warm skin. A cloud of silk covered him as Sherlock held his robe open and closed it around both their bodies. John pressed his nose into Sherlock's skin and breathed him in. He smelled of expensive soap and something uniquely Sherlock. He smelled intoxicating. John kissed his breastbone and held his lips there. He was content to stand there, holding Sherlock and listening to his heart beat as long as his own pulsed in his chest.

'Will you just go?' Sherlock choked out. He pushed John away, ran up the stairs with his robe billowing behind him like a cape and shut the door resolutely.

John felt weak with happiness. He went through his day at St. Bart's with a beatific expression. One of his nurses even said to him, 'Dr. Watson, whatever it is you did this morning, do it daily.' In the evening, he got off the train still holding that expression but quickened his steps, impatient to return to 221B Baker Street, to Sherlock. _His Sherlock. John's Sherlock._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Sherlock was not in when John entered the flat. He brushed his teeth, showered quickly and opened his closet to pull out pyjamas and a t-shirt. _Do I need pants today? Don't push it. You've kissed him just once. Put on some pants!_ He found a long envelope in his closet. It contained a few sheets of paper with the letterhead of St. Bart's. _Test results. Whose? Oh, Sherlock's. He's clean. He's telling me something. _John wore only his pyjamas and t-shirt.

When he entered the living room, Sherlock had just walked into the flat. His cool gaze skittered over John. _Flushed cheeks. From the shower or…? Pulsing jugular. Dilated pupils. Nervous licking of lips. Clearly aroused. Good. Noticeable bulge in pyjamas. No pants. Very good._

'John', he said in stiff greeting.

'Hi', John grinned stupidly. He stared at Sherlock, unable to believe that he was going to be able to reprise their activities from the morning and very possibly go beyond.

'Hungry?' Sherlock asked, taking off his scarf and coat.

'Yes, oh god yes, I'm hungry', John sounded fevered. 'Not for food', he tried to quickly clarify. 'Oh, fuck', he cursed. He was blabbering again.

'Alright', Sherlock laughed. 'Shall we reconvene in your _bed_room?'

'Y-yes, yes, my bedroom', John spluttered.

Sherlock winked at him and strode elegantly into his bedroom while John retreated on shaky legs to his. Ten minutes later Sherlock stood in his doorway. He had just showered and was clad in only a small towel wrapped around his waist. He reached into the gap in the fabric where the edges of the towel overlapped and rubbed a hand slowly on his thigh.

John's pulse thumped in his ears. He felt faint. 'What are you doing?' he choked out.

'I'm trying to seduce you. We said things yesterday and we kissed once this morning. You said not to seduce you in the morning. I didn't think you would have a problem if I did so now.'

John squeezed his fists to his eyes. 'This is torture, Sherlock. You peer into your microscope and I get a stiffy. You sip your coffee mug and I get a stonker. You must have observed I am perpetually hard around you. So consider me thoroughly, permanently seduced.'

'John, are you nervous?'

'No! I'm terrified!'

'But it's only me.'

'It's _you_!'

'And that's why you shouldn't be terrified. Look at me.'

When John looked up at him, Sherlock could see he was panicking.

'There's something I've wanted to tell you all these years but just never could', Sherlock said.

'What is it?'

'I have…I mean I don't have…', he stopped, his eyes flitting over John's body almost fearfully, avoiding his scrutiny.

John instinctively snapped into John-takes-care-of-Sherlock mode, his own trepidations forgotten because Sherlock needed him. 'Sherlock, it's me. You said you trust me', he pulled Sherlock into his arms.

'I do! But I mean, my body…it is not...', Sherlock hesitated and squeezed his eyes shut.

'Your body's beautiful, Sherlock', John said softly, hoping he could reassure his anxious lover. Sherlock was incredible. Why would he have any reason to feel inadequate?

'No, John! I know you have a penchant for this particular body part but I come up short, very short, in that respect.'

'Hush now, listen to me. It's impossible for you to come up short in any respect! You're just beautiful!' John lifted his hands and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's skin, tracing his sculpted shoulders to the lean sweep of his pectorals and over his ribs down to his slender waist. 'Look at you. You're like a painting, like a sunrise. You're so beautiful. You're also a bloody exhibitionist', he teased, wanting Sherlock to smile. 'I've seen almost all of you naked, so unless it's a third testicle, I don't think you have anything that will surprise me. And I promise to ardently desire even your third testicle because it's you. Alright?'

'Oh god, John!' he cried, holding John's shoulders tight. 'I uh…I only have two testicles but-', he blew out a shivering breath and closed his eyes, unable to meet John's concerned gaze and confessed hurriedly, 'but-I-have-a-flat-chest-John. No-breasts. You-like-breasts, big-breasts. I-don't-have-them. Do-you-still-want-me-knowing-I-never-will?'

He felt John's shoulders shaking and opened one playful eye to see his lover chuckling silently. He opened his other eye and laughed with John who nuzzled his face in the soft hair on the flat chest he so adored. Sherlock raised his head and tucked John's head into the curve below his chin, holding him tight.

'Thank god for that!' John giggled. 'I stood here expecting to have sex with a flat-chested and incredibly masculine man.' He pulled Sherlock's head down for a sloppy kiss and then broke it to lick his lips, his cheeks, his neck. 'Oh god, I could lick you all over. Your flat chest, your flat stomach, your long thighs, your arms, your cheeks, your neck. God, your neck, your fucking neck. It's immorally desirable. Mmm…you taste like warm snow.'

'What?'

'Nothing', John said quickly. _I've got to stop blathering! Sherlock doesn't abide nonsensical talk._

'John, I don't want a part of you. I want _all_ of you and if that includes being subjected to completely inane and often bizarre expressions of affection, so be it. Now say that again.'

'I said you taste like warm snow', John repeated in a small voice.

'Warm snow?' Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

John sighed and crossed the Rubicon of inanities. 'To me, your flesh is like warm snow. Warm, soft, milky, unsullied. Perfect. I want to keep tasting your skin. You are perfect.'

The quivering in Sherlock's lips was controlled sentiment and the light flush in his cheeks and his shining eyes belied the severity of his response. 'Your simile flouts the rules of science. Also, perfection is a subjective concept.'

'You are perfect to me. Perfect for me.'

'It's a good thing I like you', Sherlock granted, dropping his head back in a clear invitation to John to resume his activities on the immorally desirable column of his neck.

'Hmm?' John murmured and returned to licking Sherlock's skin and sucking on his neck.

'I couldn't overlook this level of illogic from anyone else.'

'See? You _are _perfect for me, because I wouldn't be inspired to this level of illogic with anyone else.'

'I am glad we are in agreement. Now I should like to return to kissing you and doing dirty things with my "oral sex organ" and any other organs you might wish to engage.'

'I wish to engage all of you because you are a walking sex organ, Sherlock. Fuck, sorry.'

'Why are you apologising?'

'I didn't realise I blabber when I'm horny. But I see I am doomed to being horny around you all the time. You're sex on legs.'

'Horny…hmm. I like that. In fact, I wish to take your horn in my hand and blow on it', he said.

'Sherlock!'

He did not understand John's consternation. 'Do you prefer phallus or penis?' he offered, thinking John might favour labels of a more scientific variety.

'Neither…', John almost sounded ashamed.

'Todger? Tool?' Sherlock tried his hand at colloquialisms.

John shook his head tightly.

'I'm _not_ going to call it "pecker" or "willie", John', he said firmly. 'That's beneath me.'

John giggled, '_I_ want to be beneath you', but he shook his head once more.

'Cock?' Sherlock tried again, the plosive 'k' shooting through John's skin and terminating in a tiny jolt at the tip of said swollen flesh.

John's head fell on Sherlock's chest. 'Oh god!' he gasped weakly.

'I see…', Sherlock said softly and dropped his voice to smoky growl, 'I want to hold your cock, John. I want to make you come in my hand tonight. Will you let me?' He laughed when he felt the head on his chest nod enthusiastically. 'And do you want to touch me? Do you want to touch my cock?'

'Unnhh', John moaned into his skin.

'I'll take that as a yes', Sherlock said, sounding as though he were taking an executive vote in a boardroom. 'And I suggest we begin because my patience is running thinner than this towel around my waist. Feel free to divest me of it whenever you're ready.'

John took a step back from Sherlock and hooked a shy finger into the towel. He shot a quick glance at Sherlock who was watching him with parted lips. John lowered his gaze and tugged lightly at the towel. It came loose and fell in a soft heap to the floor. And John stared at the flesh that was revealed to him. A long and thick erection jutted proudly from a bush of closely-cropped dark hair. It was flushed. It looked decadent, dissolute and absolutely divine. A flood of wanton desire crashed through him, washing away any residual misgivings and he sank to his knees before Sherlock, distantly recalling the test results. He didn't hear Sherlock call out his name when, like a man drunk on his lover's scent, he placed both hands on Sherlock's slender hips and caressed him, sliding his palms in slow circles over the smooth skin towards the back to trace the dips in his buttocks before closing on two taut yet succulent globes. _Gorgeous. I knew he would be._ His fingers curled into Sherlock's cleft and squeezed the supple flesh apart while he lowered his head to kiss the tip of Sherlock's magnificent erection.

This time he heard Sherlock cry out his name because it was loud and ragged. But he didn't look up. He needed to lick Sherlock. So he did. He licked his glans, laving it with his saliva, running his tongue around the bulb and dipping into the slit to taste his lover. _I'm tasting Sherlock. I'm licking his cock. God, how I've wanted this._ John widened his jaws and sank over Sherlock's length in one smooth move, taking him all the way in until he felt Sherlock poke at his throat and his nose was pressed into the bristly thatch. 'Umhh', he moaned around the shaft in his mouth and began to suck. He had never thought of sucking someone off as a selfish act but right now, John was sucking Sherlock for John. He needed to imbibe Sherlock and his primal virility through his cock, the seat of his sex, the only organ in his body that could overwhelm that incredible brain into shutting down. So he did. He sucked and licked and kissed and moaned and hummed and sucked again, loudly, not hearing the obscene medley of noises from both their mouths filling the quiet room. All the while he held Sherlock's jerking hips still by tightening his grip on his arse cheeks. When John pulled his head back to flick his tongue over his glans, Sherlock's legs gave way and he sat heavily on the bed, falling back with a juddering cry of pleasure.

John's mouth was suddenly deprived of its prize and he scrambled up to the edge of the bed, pushed Sherlock's legs apart at the knees and descended on him. His mouth was full again and began to lick and lave and suck and hum until he felt a trembling hand in his hair, pulling him back. He shook his head, placed his palm flat over Sherlock's quaking belly and sucked harder and a few seconds later, Sherlock's cock palpitated in his mouth and flooded it with his hot seed. John swallowed, needy and desperate and grateful, sucking lightly until he felt the tremors ripping through Sherlock's body slow down. Finally, the flesh in his mouth became smaller and flaccid and he pulled off slowly to sit on his haunches and stare down the length of Sherlock's recumbent body from between his legs.

Sherlock lay melting on the bed, one arm thrown over his face while his chest rose and fell and his belly fluttered in time with his erratic breaths. The moonlight glinted off the thin sheen of sweat covering his milky skin. John slowly came back to himself and sat in stunned silence. He licked his lips to relive the taste of Sherlock. He had never sucked a man before. He had never been with a man before. Yet he knew he had given Sherlock pleasure today. He hadn't been scientific about his approach. Sherlock had said to allow their bodies to dictate their actions but John had followed his heart. And his heart had shown him the right things to do.

Sherlock's abdomen clenched and he raised himself off the bed to sit upright. He looked down at John between his knees.

'Have you- been with a man- before me?' he asked huskily between gasps.

'Never.'

'Then where did you learn to do that?'

'Did I do it wrong?'

'Answer my question.'

'I- uh, I know what I liked having done to me and Sherlock- it's, it's you. I wasn't thinking, I don't know. I just had to take you in my mouth. Oh god, you didn't like it!'

'How do you not see yourself, John?' Sherlock sounded torn. 'Come up here. And take your clothes off!'

John haltingly rose to his feet and almost diffidently pulled his t-shirt off.

'All of it', Sherlock ordered. 'I need you naked. Now!' he growled.

John undid the drawstrings of his pyjamas and let them fall in a pool of fabric to his feet.

'Good, that's good', Sherlock gulped. 'On the bed, please.'

John lay down on the bed next to Sherlock, feeling his cock swell. He knew Sherlock was studying him and he couldn't bear that piercing examination so he closed his eyes and faced the ceiling. Sherlock moved over the mattress and slowly stretched out on the bed next to John.

'I have been unforgivably conservative in my imaginings of you, John', Sherlock purred and John knew exactly where he was looking right that moment. The appendage under observation twitched in response.

'Aaah', John gasped when he felt soft lips press into the skin behind his ear and blunt nails scrape down his chest, catching lightly on the tender skin of a nipple.

'Jaawwwnn', Sherlock whispered. 'The things you did to me just now. I've driven myself mad waiting for this, for you. I want you. God, how I've wanted you…'

_How long has he wanted me?  
_  
'I've wanted you for a very long time', Sherlock read John's unspoken doubts in his gasp. 'And now I'm going to take your _cock_ in my hand and whisper dirty things in your ear while I wank you. Does that sound acceptable?'

John shook his head, eyes still closed. 'Please kiss me', he whimpered. He did want Sherlock to whisper dirty things in his ear and he did want Sherlock to wank him, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted to be touched and held. Tonight he wanted to tell Sherlock all the things he had kept locked inside him for too long. His heart was brimming and if it overflowed, he was scared it could mean the end of everything. He was so scared. But Sherlock pressed into him; he slid his thigh over John's and pushed in between his legs, opening them up slightly.

'Lube?' Sherlock asked and John shook his head. Then he heard two sharp, wet sounds and in the next instant, Sherlock's hand was on his cock and all sensation ceased but for the feeling of that large palm moving tight and slick around his flesh. _Fuck, Sherlock spat into his palm. _'Kiss me', John pleaded again and Sherlock's mouth closed over his and all thought ceased. The lissome leg thrown diagonally over his legs kept them from thrashing as the strokes on his cock tightened and quickened. John felt conquered and within a few minutes everything that had been building up inside him was spilling out in hot, viscous ropes over Sherlock's fingers. The hand around him loosened a little in consideration of his sensitive flesh but continued to gently pump him, squeezing every little bit of ejaculate from his shaking body while the mouth on his swallowed his shuddering cries.

When they finally separated, Sherlock twisted his body around to pull a few tissues from the box on the night table and wiped the spunk from his hand and carefully cleaned John's belly and chest. Then he lay down on the bed facing John, reading his unguarded feelings in his large blue eyes.

'Tell me, John.'

John's chin wobbled a little until Sherlock kissed him again, on his lips, on his cheeks, on his eyebrows and ended with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

'Tell me everything', Sherlock commanded softly.

John obeyed.

'I love you, Sherlock', he said softly. 'I love you. I can't say I love you so much or very much; I can't quantify this goddamn feeling because it's everywhere in me. I feel I've been dipped in it, head to toe and it's dripping from every bloody pore. I love you! I'm _in love_ with you and I've been in love with you for a very long time. I love you romantically, sexually, desperately and any other way one can love. If this is not what you want, if all you want is friendship with sex then we should stop right now because this is not just a sexual arrangement to me, Sherlock and it never will be. It is everything to me. _You_ are everything to me. So please tell me if I've been a prize fool and you want us to stop.'

Sherlock reached up a long finger and pressed on John's furrowed brow. His frown dissolved immediately.

'When we spoke on the phone that day, about Victor, I knew what I felt and I could also tell what _you_ thought I felt. You were wrong, obviously, but I wasn't worried because you were coming back to me in a couple of weeks. Of course, you're always surprising, sometimes annoyingly so, because you very unwisely decided to accept that extension.'

'What was I to do, Sherlock?'

'You could have stayed on the line a little longer!'

'My heart was breaking!'

'That's because you can be frustratingly dense sometimes!' Sherlock snapped in exasperation. John flinched and ducked his chin into his chest, looking up miserably at Sherlock through his fluttering lashes. 'John, oh god, no, don't be like that. Please, forgive me', he whispered and pulled John's face up by his chin and kissed him. 'John, John, John, forgive me', he whispered between kisses, placating his offended lover. 'Since you returned, I became convinced you loved me before you told me just now.'

'How?'

'I see it in your eyes when you bring me my coffee with two biscuits, the kind I like, which is only available in one store near Ravenscourt Park and you have to change three trains to buy when our stock runs out. You take care not to mess up my sock index. You cover me when I fall asleep on the sofa and touch my hair before you leave for work. You touch me whenever you can, you don't even realise you're doing it. You make sure I eat and sleep. Your eyes are always seeking me. If I'm hurt, you suffer with me. If I'm upset, you worry for me. You keep me sane. You keep me right. You always have, John, from that day you first picked me up. You're always picking me up. So you see? I do know you love me.'

'Fine, you know I love you.'

'Now you're killing yourself, wondering why I haven't said it back.'

'Now I hate you, Mr. Know-it-all.'

'I may not know it all but I do know you', Sherlock murmured, tracing John's eyebrow with his forefinger and drawing it down slowly to his cheekbone and jawline and then over his lips.

'Hmph', John grunted and kissed Sherlock's finger.

'I love you, John. You've got to know that.'

'No, I don't, really. I never assume things like this.'

'I am confirming that I do.'

'I'm glad.'

'I love you.'

'God, I love you.'

'Look at me, John.'

John looked up at Sherlock and saw his eyes blazing with an intensity he had never seen in them before. Sherlock took John's hand and held his fingers to his lips as he spoke John's own words.

'My love for you hanged at the gallows every time you went on a date. My heart bled when we were apart. I mistook what I was feeling for petty possessiveness. I didn't recognise it as love. _You _are the breath in my lungs, John, and you have been for a long, long time now. I realised it that day we spoke on the phone. You were in my every thought. How could ever I be with anyone else?'

'Oh god, Sherlock', John moaned and pulled his head down to kiss him desperately. There was so much to say. There was nothing to say. Their lips met again, gentler this time, touching in wonder and incredulity, undeclared promises and assurances carried through their shared breaths and sighs.

'So…', John asked, 'why did you go on dates if you knew I loved you?'

'I had to be sure that you _wanted_ me. I thought you did until you went on your date with _Dr. Gillian Miller_', he said, twisting his lips in distaste. 'My next plan to make you jealous was spectacularly unsuccessful. I sent you running to _other_ men.'

'I only went looking for other men because I couldn't get you out of my mind. Or into my pants', John laughed at his own joke.

'That was dreadful, John! You are utterly ridiculous.'

'But you are in my pants now and, more importantly, you love me so I don't care how ridiculous I am.'

'Yes, yes, I love you. Now shut up and give me a kiss, ridiculous man.'

'Unh.'

'Thank you for coming back to me.'

'Thank yourself.'

'Hmm?'

'You instigated my return, Sherlock. Mycroft told me.'

'Yes, but he orchestrated it.'

'He did tell me that too.'

'My overweight brother must have spilled the beans when he tried to make space in his mouth for cake.'

'Leave him alone. He's good with his diet. I'm glad he told me. Until then, I thought you didn't care.'

'Are you upset with me?'

'Very. But I can be mollified with a kiss. Plant that scandalous mouth on mine before I do something nasty to you', John growled with a lascivious snarl.

'Nasty? Oh, John!' Sherlock broke out in a completely uncharacteristic chortle but immediately composed himself. 'Bloody hell, you're making me ordinary', he complained.

'You'll never be ordinary, Sherlock. You're extraordinary, just amazing, my beautiful, exquisite love.'

'I love you, John.'

'I love you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock collapsed in John's arms with a contented sigh and they kissed and caressed and moaned softly and kissed again like they had all the time in the world.

They had touched and consequently thought about little else all night.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

_Sherlock collapsed in John's arms with a contented sigh and they kissed and caressed and moaned softly and kissed again like they had all the time in the world._

_They had touched and consequently thought about little else all night._

* * *

Oblique sheets of gold streamed in, warm and luminescent, through the windows of John's bedroom, heralding the new day; his lashes fluttered and parted drowsily in dawn's early light. Yawning languidly, he enjoyed the feeling of wakefulness slowly seeping into his limbs as his mind relived the events of the previous night. A pleasurable lassitude pervaded his body and he stretched his arms and arched his back, snapping into full alertness when a sharp twinge of pain shot through his tailbone. _What the fuck? When did I hurt myself? Oh right, the sexy arachnid pushed me off the bed last night. _John had had to wrestle his way back into his bed because Sherlock had turned out to be a bed-hog.

He sat up on his sore bum to see what havoc Sherlock had wreaked overnight. The bedcover had come untucked and lay crumpled and bunched around his nude lover who took up three-quarters of the queen mattress, lying across it diagonally on his stomach, facing away from John. A tousle of dark bistre curls was joined by his long, creamy neck to a smooth back that flared out in a splendid vee from his wide shoulders to his slender middle, the thin skin at his sides folded at the twist in his waist. His face was buried in his pillow; one knee was pulled up to his chest while the other leg arrowed down to the opposite corner of the bed. This brazen pose would have been unbearably debauched were it not for a modicum of modesty afforded by the loose tangle of sheets around his naked hips. John ignored his throbbing backside for a moment to acknowledge that Sherlock was beautiful like this – he looked like Pheidippides frozen in mid-sprint. Carefully lifting the slack folds of the sheet, John sneaked a peek at the curves of that illegally plush backside stretched into a lopsided double-u – one cheek pulled smoothly into the hamstring of the bent leg, the other cheek tensed at the top of the extended leg. Unable to resist, he bent down to press a kiss to one rounded globe and then to Sherlock's temple.

He was startled to hear a sleep-roughened voice say, 'You think I have a fine arse.'

'Wh- yes, yes', John stammered, mortified that he had been found out. 'I do think you have a fine arse. Sorry…I shouldn't have done that, not when you were sleeping.'

'I wasn't. And you're not taking advantage of me. Not after last night, anyway.' Sherlock had not opened his eyes or lifted his head from his pillow.

'How long have you been awake?'

'Long enough to know you were ogling me.'

'Admiring you.'

'Ogling.'

'To-may-to, to-mah-to.'

'Hmph', Sherlock huffed and shifted a little. 'Be warned that I might ogle your tomatoes while you sleep.'

'Consider me warned', John chortled and went into the bathroom to perform his ablutions. Sherlock was still sleeping while he dressed. He ate his breakfast, left Sherlock's toast and egg on a plate, set the timer on the coffee machine and went back to his bedroom to kiss and nuzzle Sherlock's rowdy curls.

'Guh-way', Sherlock shooed him groggily.

'I love you, sleepy head', John murmured and kissed his hair again.

'Hmrr', Sherlock grunted and pulled the sheets over his head. John laughed. He picked up his bag and left for work.

* * *

Sherlock awoke a half hour later, griping loudly to an empty room about the unsatisfactory size and firmness of John's mattress but stopped when he considered that John had had to furnish the bedroom when he moved in and was still using the budget mattress he had been able to afford in Uni. Oh well, he'd just have to upgrade this room for John. Or…there was another option.

His hand crept down to his arse cheek and touched the spot where John had kissed him. A rumble of satisfaction resonated in his chest. The previous night had been revelatory. Just when he thought he knew everything about him, John did the unexpected. He had been sure John would be conflicted about his sexuality for a while before admitting he loved Sherlock. But John had surprised him yet again by confessing his love on their first night of intimacy. 'I love you, John', he said to the pillow but immediately shushed himself for his clichéd expression of affection. _Talking to someone who isn't in the room is surely a sign of…idiocy. Or is it love? Maybe love manifests like idiocy. I need more data._ He got out of bed and walked naked to his bedroom.

Pulling out a fresh towel from his linen closet, he stepped into the bathroom and in a few minutes, stood scrubbed and clean, considering his clothes. A folded piece of paper tucked in the pocket of a shirt caught his attention. It was a note from John.

_I can now tell you that seeing you in this purple shirt takes my breath away. Whenever you wear it, I fantasize about peeling you out of it and kissing your skin and licking you wherever and for as long as you'll let me. _  
_I love you,_  
_John_

Decision made, Sherlock wore the purple shirt under a black suit, ate the toast and egg John had made for him and drank his coffee. He unfolded John's note and read it again. His features relaxed into a fleeting grin before he headed out to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft had a private office there and had called upon Sherlock to investigate a case of missing funds for his friends. Six hours later, the case was solved and Sherlock was at a loose end. It gave him a chance to pay John a visit at St. Bart's.

* * *

John was headed down the hallway to the out-patient section when he heard an unmistakable and thrillingly proprietary voice call out his name. He turned around to see Sherlock walking up behind him. 'What are you doing here?' His hungry gaze skittered over Sherlock's slim black suit and purple shirt. _He read my note. _The blue scarf hung untied around his neck. 'Let's step in here', he said, leading Sherlock into an empty exam room and closed the door.

Sherlock immediately swooped in for a kiss. John started to protest that he was in his workplace and then thought _Fuck it. He's my boyfriend, we're alone in the room and I want to kiss him._ So he did.

When they separated, Sherlock explained his presence. 'Mycroft needed my help', he said while gracefully wiping away a small remnant of John's saliva above his upper lip, 'with a case of domestic misappropriation of funds.'

'Is he calling you in to mediate family squabbles now?'

'Kenilworth family. They own the Ivanhoe Financial Group', Sherlock said absently, looking around the room. 'Embezzlement in the amount of twenty-eight million pounds. Anyway, it took a trip to their bank, their accountant and then a few hours to solve after which I came here. I wanted to come see you in the morning but thought I'd get the silly case out of the way first. Mycroft gets persnickety about keeping his friends in high places happy.'

John flushed in happy surprise. 'You wanted to see me?'

'Your keen ability to zero in on the things that matter to you never ceases to amaze me', Sherlock smiled. 'Yes, John. I wanted to see you', he reiterated patiently. 'This whole love business is dreadfully inconvenient. It seems to create an annoying physiological need to close to the object of one's affection and I've read that it's a particularly unrelenting impulse in the initial stages of being together', he huffed. 'Bad news for brainwork.'

_My boyfriend wanted to see me, the object of his affection. Sherlock wanted to see me._

'John, John. Snap out of it. What are you thinking?'

'I thought of you as my boyfriend just now. Is that what we are? Boyfriends?'

'"Boyfriend" is too trite. I see us as…partners.'

'Partners. I like that.'

'John, you're staring.'

'How can you blame me? Look at you. You look…oh god, I want to…'

'Peel me out of this purple shirt and kiss my skin and lick me wherever and for as long as I'll let you. I read your note. Not exactly poetry but quite vivid.' He dipped his head to kiss John's lips again. 'I'll see you at home at which time you are encouraged to indulge your "purple urges".'

A throat was cleared and John pulled away at once. They turned to look into the smiling face of the Charge Nurse.

'Laters, John', Sherlock waved impishly and strode towards the door. 'Good evening, madam', he said to the Charge Nurse in his most upper-crust manner and swept out of the room while his audience gaped at his retreating form.

'I can see why you were smiling all day yesterday, Dr. Watson.'

'What?'

'He's very handsome.'

'Yes, uh, yes he is.'

'You, Dr. Watson, are very lucky.'

'Yes, I am', John shrugged happily.

'And your even luckier patient is waiting in Exam Room Three', she reminded him gently.

'Of course, thank you.'

* * *

John's fancies entailed more than just undressing and licking Sherlock. When he got home, Sherlock wasn't in so he showered and took a little longer this time to clean himself thoroughly in preparation for his planned activities, all the while humming the lyrics to his favourite love songs. An hour of sappy singing later, he dressed in pyjamas and a t-shirt and settled on the couch to wait for Sherlock.

At nine o'clock, the door opened and he looked upon his tall lover again. Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and turned to John.

'You're late', John complained.

'I won't be having dinner. You?' he asked.

'No.'

'Alright. I'm going to shower.'

'Not yet', John said flatly and rose from the couch.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

'If I am to indulge my "purple urges" tonight, you may take off your jacket but not your shirt.'

Sherlock thrilled to the understated authority in John's voice. He walked into his bedroom followed by John and took off his jacket, placing it neatly over the back of a chair before turning around. John lifted his hands to stroke Sherlock's face, from his temples to his cheekbones down to his jaw line and then the length of his neck. 'So beautiful', John whispered almost to himself. 'I'm going to take your clothes off, Sherlock and then I'm going to watch you shower.'

A shiver of desire zipped up Sherlock's spine. John played with the top button on his shirt until it came open and John's lips dropped a soft kiss to the newly exposed skin. Then the next button was unfastened followed by another kiss. And the next button and a kiss. Buttons were undone, dark fabric was peeled open and milky skin was revealed and kissed until John was kneeling before him, gazing at the downy hair on his abdomen. A low moan escaped Sherlock's lips when he felt John bury his face in his belly and ruck the shirt out from the waistband of his trousers.

John rose to his feet slowly, dragging his open mouth up the length of Sherlock's torso and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. 'God, Sherlock. How did I get so lucky? You're beautiful, my love', he murmured, still kissing his body, the hollow at the base of his throat, his arms, his collarbones and chest. Then he walked around Sherlock to trace the angles of his shoulder blades with his lips, the dip between them, down the curve of his spine, along the gracefully flaring muscles at his sides up to the nape of his neck. John played with his curls and scraped his blunt nails on Sherlock's scalp and gently pulled on his hair, lightly yanking his head back. Sherlock groaned softly.

'Jaawwn, kiss me!' he begged. He could have turned around and taken John in his arms but he didn't. This was John's time to explore Sherlock like he wanted. But he was getting desperate for John's kisses, shaking with desire and stilling only when he felt his lips cossetted in the warmth of John's loving mouth. Those lips, the soft hum travelling from John to him and the deft tongue tantalizing his own all conspired to lull him into a languorous state of peace; his sparking synapses, his breathing, his pulse all eased and loosened until his body thrummed to the tranquil measure of a single syllable – _John_.

They kissed for a long time, sharing their body heat through John's thin t-shirt. John drew Sherlock's hand down to his arse and led those long fingers into his cleft through the soft cotton of his pyjamas.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away with a gasp and read John's unambiguous meaning in his pleading eyes. He stared at John, needy but hopeful. 'Isn't it too soon? You've never-'

John's fading control dissolved completely and his eyes flitted uncertainly across Sherlock's. 'Is it too soon for you?'

Sherlock swallowed. 'God, no! I _want_ to take you, John. I've wanted it for so long, god, I want you!' he kissed John. 'But this is only our second night together and there many other things we can do. I don't want to rush you into anything.'

John shook his head and held Sherlock's eyes with his own unshuttered gaze. 'It must be our eight-hundredth night together in this flat and my four-hundredth night of being in love with you, Sherlock. Is _that _too soon? You're not rushing me. I'm _asking_ you for this. I want this! And I don't want to wait another night if I don't have to and if _you_ don't want to.'

Sherlock's head dropped and he pressed his forehead to John's. 'How is it you're always surprising me?' he breathed, 'I was sure you would have wanted to take me first.'

'I want to take you, Sherlock. And I will. But tonight you are the more experienced of us both and I got home first so I had time to…you know…'

Sherlock understood exactly what John meant but he asked, 'You had time to…?' His eyes crinkled in mirth while a mischievous smile played on his lips.

'Prepare! God, are you going to make me spell everything out?' John sounded exasperated.

'How can I resist if it gets you so deliciously flustered? So you're saying you're…clean?'

'Yes, I'm clean', John bit out with his eyes closed. 'My tests are clear. I know what needs to be done…in terms of hygiene. I did it. I'm ready.'

'On the bed, then, John', he commanded. 'You can watch me shower another night. I'll be back in a few minutes.'

He was about to take his trousers and pants off and hasten into the bathroom when they heard a police siren on the street.

Sherlock peered out of the window and saw a man exit the police car. 'It's Lestrade, bloody hell!' he cursed.

Twenty seconds later, there was an insistent knock on the door. 'Sherlock!' they heard Lestrade call out.

Sherlock looked at John. 'I'll see if I can get rid of him', he said, pulling his shirt back on and striding into the living room.

'What is it?' he asked when he had opened the door to let Lestrade in.

'There's been a suspicious death in Belgravia. It's the son of an MP who's asking for you personally. The body's been taken to St. Bart's.'

'Text me the address. I'll let you know if I can come', Sherlock said to Lestrade, dismissing him to return to his bedroom.

'You heard?'

'I did. Go on', John said indulgently. 'Your work comes first and I'll be here when you get back', he stood on tiptoe to kiss the corner of Sherlock's lips.

'I was actually hoping you'd come with me', he said hopefully. 'I could use your medical insight.'

'Of course.'

Sherlock crushed his mouth against John's. 'I will make this up to you', he murmured. 'I love you.'

'And I love you', John mumbled through a kiss and headed to his bedroom to get dressed. _My deflowering trumped by a murder. Life's just great._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_'And I love you', John mumbled through a kiss and headed to his bedroom to get dressed. My deflowering trumped by a murder. Life's just great._

* * *

It was one a.m. when they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had spoken little in the taxi on their way home. John could see that he had retreated into his mind and knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. He retired to his bedroom and soon fell asleep to the melodic strains of Sherlock's violin and the soft footfalls of his bare feet on the living room carpet.

When he awoke the next morning, Sherlock was not home. He ate breakfast, cast a longing look at Sherlock's bedroom, sighed and left for work.

Sherlock was not home when he returned in the evening. John ate dinner, cast another longing look at Sherlock's bedroom, sighed again and went to bed. He texted Sherlock before falling asleep.

_Where are you? Call me. I miss you. _

He was awakened the next morning by Sherlock shaking his shoulders.

'John!'

'What the fuck. What are you doing, you lunatic?'

'Wake up!'

'Fuck off, I'm sleeping.'

'How many hours of sleep do you need?'

'At least six, you inconsiderate arse.'

'You've been asleep for ten hours! You're growing old before your time, John.'

'I'm not growing old. I'm just not a vampire, like _some_ people. Now go away! Shoo! Or I'll spray some garlic in your face.'

'I'm not leaving until you wake up. Rise and shine, time's a-wasting! It's ten o'clock.'

'A sunny vampire. Fantastic. When did I sign up for this hell?' John griped. Sherlock's response was a vigorous resumption of the shoulder-shaking. 'Oi! Just give me a sodding minute, alright? Go away and let my heart stop fibrillating. Maniac.'

'Alright. You have twenty minutes or I'm coming back.'

'Thirty!'

'Twenty-five and not a second more.'

Twenty-two minutes later, a crabby John shuffled into the kitchen to make himself some tea. He had showered but was still groggy from his rude awakening. A mug was pushed into his hand. He sniffed the beverage. 'Tea, I need tea.'

'No, you need coffee', Sherlock chirped, 'because I need you bright eyed and bushy tailed for this.'

'So you've figured it all out?'

'Not yet, but I will. What had you planned to do upon waking?'

'Thank my stars that my heart didn't give out from the shock of this morning? Read the papers, maybe? Have a normal morning like normal people do. You know, nothing special.'

'Wrong. You're going to do something very special.'

'Which is?'

'I'm going to talk through the case and you're going to listen.'

'You have Billy for that.'

'I don't like having to state the obvious, John, but skulls are incapable of conversation.'

'Very droll, Sherlock, but when I try to converse, you ask me to shut up. Talk to Billy. You don't have to worry about insulting him.'

'Why would I talk to Billy anymore when I have you? Now shut up and listen.'

John rolled his eyes and slumped in a chair.

'Here's what we know. The deceased is James Ivey, forty-two, only son of Richard Ivey, MP and Catherine Ivey. James was married to Penelope Ivey who was paralysed from the waist down in a car accident four months ago. He was driving. She's been living in a rehab facility since. His body was discovered on Friday evening in his flat in Belgravia. You examined his body and put the time of death between nine p.m. and eleven p.m. on Thursday. Thoughts?'

'The wife can't have done it.'

'Everyone's a suspect for now, John.'

'If he held himself responsible for her injury, that kind of guilt can kill. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe it was suicide.'

'That's what NSY thinks but I think it was staged to look that way. Now, you also said he died of respiratory distress from a combination of alcohol poisoning and choking.'

'He might have survived asphyxiation and been able to release himself from his belt had his blood alcohol level not been dangerously high.'

'You've read NSY's report. Did anything strike you as odd?'

'Yeah, actually. They found no traces of fingerprints in the bathroom. Not even Ivey's. It's unlikely that someone who's planning to kill himself would wipe the flat clean', John mused.

'Go on', Sherlock encouraged, delighted at John's logical process.

'Ivey had bitten his tongue really hard. I saw coagulated blood around the wound. Some blood would certainly have dripped down his chin, maybe even dropped to the floor. But there was nothing in the photographs and not a trace of blood on his body. Everything was suspiciously spotless.'

'Very good, John! While you were at work yesterday, I entered James Ivey's flat. Anderson, NSY's finest in forensics', he sneered, 'hadn't thought of using a UV light to inspect the flat'.

He held out photographs of the darkened flat with clear indications of streaks of blood stains wiped off the door and bathroom floor, under the UV light.

'Oh god! Someone's clearly been in the flat. This is murder!'

'Indeed it is. I spoke to the concierge on the afternoon shift who gave me a copy of the entire day's security tapes. We have a lead.'

'Who?' John cocked an eyebrow, sipping his coffee and gagging imperceptibly. Once again, Sherlock had made coffee like Sherlock liked it, with three spoons of sugar. John swallowed against the excessive sweetness and told himself that he liked it because he loved Sherlock and Sherlock was sweet so anything he made would, by derivation, also be sweet.

'James had a visitor. A woman who seems to be a very high-class escort. Watch', he said and pressed play on John's laptop.

John watched the security footage from the evening of James Ivey's death. On the screen, a statuesque brunette wearing designer sunglasses, a chic black dress and high heels walked up to the concierge who picked up the phone and spoke into it, presumably to James, and then directed the woman to the lifts. The time index on the tape was eight fifteen p.m. Sherlock fast-forwarded to a half hour later when the camera caught the woman leaving the building. She looked harried and dishevelled and brushed off the concierge who seemed to be trying to calm her down.

'We have to find her. She is possibly the last person to see James Ivey alive', Sherlock said softly, his hands steepled below his chin. 'She's our lynchpin.'

'How didn't the police see this? Lestrade wouldn't have been so quick to rule it a suicide.'

'Lestrade's under pressure from the victim's family to keep things quiet. Richard Ivey is in the public eye. He can't afford to have his family's name in the tabloids. He knows Mycroft and knows what I do and he trusts me to be discreet.'

'So you don't think it's a case of suicide.'

'I am positive it is murder. Now I just have to prove it.'

'How will we find her? Are we going to contact all the high class bordellos in London?'

'No need. I have the homeless network looking for her.'

'Sherlock, you said she seems to be a very high-class call girl. Your homeless network is not going to have access to the kinds of establishments that would employ her.'

'I said she _seems_ to be, but she's not. Observe.' He rewound the video to the point where the woman finished speaking to the concierge, took off her sunglasses and walked towards the lift. Pausing on a particular frame right before she got out of the camera's range, he tapped on the screen. 'It's clear from her comportment and attire that she comes from money but', he focused on her legs, 'the heels of her Louboutin shoes are frayed and show fresh mud spots. She's been walking in sludge.' He zoomed in on her arms. 'Syringe marks. She's a junkie. Her eyeliner is poorly applied or running. High-class escorts would never call on clients looking like this. So, she's got to be working for a small-time pimp. Or probably is independent, although that's very unlikely. The homeless network will find her.'

His phone chimed with a text message. 'And they have! She was seen just now on Tottenham Court Road. Come on, John!' he exclaimed. 'We have to go!'

'You're going to kill me one day from lack of sleep. Give me a minute to change.'

* * *

Toby, a young scamp with tousled brown hair and an easy grin, greeted them on Tottenham Court Road. 'Mister Holmes, sir! That way', he indicated, cocking his head towards a decrepit building. 'Second floor, corner flat.'

'Thank you, Toby', Sherlock said, holding out two fifty pound notes. 'Buy yourself and Simon some food, you hear me? Food and nothing else.'

'I promise, Mister Holmes! I think she's got someone with her', Toby added. 'Nasty looking wanker.'

'You're too young to be using language like that. Read good books, for god's sake!'

'Yessir, Mister Holmes! Pleasure doing business with you, sir!' Toby laughed and scuttled off into the crowd.

'Who's Simon?' John asked.

'His younger brother. Toby is twelve, Simon's eight. Their mother died two years ago. Their father is a drunk and Toby and Simon survive on their wits alone.'

'So you help them like this.'

'Only because they are useful to me.'

John's eyes softened with fondness. 'A hundred quid is a lot of money. I think you like to appear cold but you're just a softie inside.'

'Once again, your romanticism clouds your judgment. Focus, John.'

They entered the building and went up the stairs to the second floor. They stopped before her door and knocked.

A muffled male voice growled, 'Who the fuck's asking for you now?'

'I'm not psychic, alright?' a female voice shouted. 'Let me go, you bastard!'

The latch dragged against the wood and the door opened a fraction.

'What do you want?' asked the woman from the security video. She looked at Sherlock and John and shook her head. 'I don't do threesomes.'

'We have a few questions about your encounter with James Ivey on Thursday', Sherlock informed her.

Her face froze. 'Fuck off!' she rasped and tried to shut the door but John pushed against it, holding it open.

'Step back, madam, or you will get hurt', he assured her calmly.

'Look, I haven't done anything. Are you with the police?'

'In a manner of speaking', John said. 'Now please, step back. We just want to ask you a few questions. It'll only take a few minutes. Please.'

The woman retreated and John pushed the door open. They stepped into her living room.

'You'll want to get rid of your guest', Sherlock advised.

'And lose two hundred quid? No fucking way! He can wait a few minutes.'

'Here's five hundred', he said, counting out ten fifty-pound notes. 'Get rid of him.'

She grabbed the notes and disappeared into the bedroom. 'Jeremy, get the fuck out.'

'Hey, I paid you up front! I want my money's worth.'

'Here's one-fifty. It's fifty quid for what we just did. Now fuck off.'

"Jeremy" stomped out of the bedroom holding his shirt against his bare torso. He shot Sherlock and John murderous looks on his way out. 'You wankers better run', he threatened. 'I'll be back and I won't be alone.'

'Scat, Jeremy! Don't make me kick you out', the woman shouted after him.

With her customer finally out of the flat, she turned to her visitors. 'Well, I'm not getting paid by the hour here so what are your questions?'

'Your name?'

'Ginger Bush.'

Sherlock raised a derisive eyebrow.

'My real name's no use to you. That's all my clients get. That's all you're getting.'

'Fine. You met James Ivey on Thursday this week at eight p.m.'

'I did. But it was eight fifteen.'

'Very good. How did you get in touch with him?'

'I got a call on my cell.'

'Did he call you directly?'

'I don't know who called me. It was a man's voice. He gave me the address and told me to ask for James Ivey. I was to be paid a thousand quid for three hours' work. Seemed too good to be true. Of course it was.'

'How do you mean?'

'He was drinking when I got there. I had to wait while he finished his bottle of whiskey. He was into some BDSM shite and bound my feet with his belt. He was about to tie my wrists when another man entered the room.'

'Describe the man', Sherlock snapped with thinly veiled excitement. 'Please', he added when he caught John glowering at him.

She smiled at John, suddenly looking very young and rather wholesome. Then she turned back to Sherlock and her face was hard again. 'He was tall – six one, maybe six two? He had a balaclava mask on, over which he wore spectacles. Long black coat. Gloves on his hands. Dark trousers and dress shoes, very expensive. He knocked Ivey down and asked me to leave. Of course I wasn't going to hang about to see what he would do next. I didn't even get paid, the bastards.'

'Do you recall anything else of significance about that evening, about Ivey or this man?'

'No and I don't want to think about it. It gave me the creeps, that flat. What's your interest in all this?'

'Don't you read the papers? James Ivey was found dead in his flat later that same evening. You are very possibly the last person to see him alive.'

'What!'

'The man who asked you to leave most likely hanged James Ivey with his own belt to make it look like a suicide. Should anything occur to you after we leave, text me at once on this number.'

'Will do.'

'Good day, Ms. Bush', John nodded with a genial smile. 'Thank you for your time. Erm…just-uh- try to keep a low profile until this case is solved? Go somewhere safe if you can. Maybe leave London for a few weeks?'

'Lillian. My name's Lillian Calhoun', she said shyly. 'My friends call me Lily.'

'Do I detect a hint of Edinburgh?' he asked.

'Yes! How did you know?'

'I'm from Glasgow', John grinned. 'My name's John.'

'And your rude friend?'

'This, here, is Sherlock', he smirked. 'I do hope you'll stay safe, Lily, and one day resume your studies and become a veterinarian', he cocked an eyebrow at the textbooks stacked on the table.

Sherlock fidgeted in silence while they conversed.

'Yeah, I love animals. I always wanted to be a pet doctor', she laughed regretfully. 'I had two dogs, a cat and a hamster when I was living with my parents in Edinburgh.'

'Quite the menagerie, I'm sure', Sherlock interrupted. 'Come along, John. This is no time to chitchat.'

'Sherlock', John glared at him. Sherlock smirked petulantly and stopped speaking.

'I used to volunteer at the local animal shelter. I'd walk my friends' dogs…', she continued wistfully, 'and then…yeah, things changed. My life changed. I don't have enough to be able to pay for my classes. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day I will.'

'If you gave up the drugs, you might.'

She huffed sadly. 'It's not like I haven't tried.'

'Listen to me, Lily', he urged. 'St. Bart's Hospital runs a free drug rehabilitation program. I can get you in. Stop by when all this has blown over and I'll speak to the doctor in charge. All you've got to do is show up.'

'You're genuinely nice, aren't you?' she said to John. 'Anytime you feel lonely, you know where to find me', she smiled. 'On the house for you.'

'John is never lonely', Sherlock quickly interjected and slipped his palm over John's and interlaced their fingers, sending a clear message if there were still any doubt. 'Let's go.'

She stared pointedly at where their hands were joined and John grinned sheepishly. 'Anytime you want to get clean, you know where to find me.'

'Hey, Mr. High-and-mighty!' she called to Sherlock as they walked out of the door. 'His spectacles - the frame was violet and silver. And his eyes weren't the same colour. One was blue, the other green. It was the oddest thing.'

'Heterochromia iridis', Sherlock said softly. 'Thank you', he nodded.

'I didn't do it for you. I did it for John.'

'St. Bart's. Don't forget', John reminded her.

'That's enough, John', Sherlock snapped. 'Thank you for your time, Ms. Calhoun.'

'Thank you for your money, Mr. High-and-mighty', she laughed.

'What were you doing?' Sherlock asked John as they climbed down the stairs.

'Nothing, I wasn't doing anything.'

'She was flirting with you. Did you find her pretty?'

'I find you pretty and I want to flirt with you.'

Sherlock's cheeks coloured. 'There's no need to flirt with me. I'm yours.'

'Still, you're so pretty. I want to cover my pretty detective's face with kisses.'

'Not now, John! We're on a case!'

'Oh, alright! Killjoy', he teased. 'I'm going to flirt with you when we're done with this case, Mr. High-and-mighty. I'm going to do a striptease for you.'

'You've got sex on the brain', Sherlock mumbled happily and pulled out his phone to text Lestrade.

They were just about to step out of the dim lobby of the building onto the street when John caught a faint movement in the shadows.

'We have company', he cautioned quietly.

Sherlock looked up from his phone and observed Jeremy and another man closing in on them from either side. He slipped his phone into his coat pocket and shook his arms loosely a couple of times. John watched, spellbound, as Sherlock's characteristic angular vitality seemingly flow out of him, leaving his body suffused with a lax, almost liquid energy. They turned as one to face the approaching men. Jeremy, who was nearer, suddenly lunged at John but Sherlock intervened and applied a light punch to his solar plexus with his right hand followed instantly by a vertical knife-hand strike to his forehead. Jeremy crumpled to the ground.

'Run!' Sherlock shouted to John, bending over Jeremy who was straining to lift himself to his feet. 'Rory!' he shouted to his companion who joined the fracas and took a menacing step towards Sherlock. Rory lifted his arm, ready to take a swing at him but John had caught a glint of steel and instinctively rushed in front of Sherlock just in time to push him out of the strike radius of a jack-knife that cut, instead, into his own forearm that he had raised in defence. John staggered back, clutching his bleeding arm, his face twisted in pain.

Having temporarily fended off John, Rory immediately turned his attention back to Sherlock and lunged at him. Sherlock, however, leapt aside nimbly and, in a swift blur of movement, trapped his assailant's arm in a pronating wristlock. Rory wrestled powerlessly against the vice-like grip but Sherlock twisted the goon's wrist in a smooth move ostensibly devoid of force and threw him to the ground. The brute attempted to scramble to his feet but Sherlock put paid to his struggle with a lightning-fast but perfectly controlled punch to his solar plexus, rendering him unconscious.

While Sherlock dealt with Rory, John tottered and fell back on the stairs, sharp spikes of pain pulsing through his arm. A seething Jeremy crawled towards him but John's leg kicked out and caught him hard in the shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground again. Within a second, John was on him, holding him down with his injured arm while his other fist directed powerful, well-aimed blows at Jeremy's jaw and shoulders and chest. He lifted his head for a second to see how Sherlock was managing with his opponent but his momentary lapse of attention gave Jeremy just enough time to slip his hand up and grip John's bleeding forearm. Jeremy dug his fingers hard into the wound and John bellowed in agony, grabbing Jeremy's wrist to pull his forearm free when a fist collided with his jaw and he rolled off Jeremy's chest, falling in a daze to the ground, curled up in debilitating pain.

Sherlock looked up from Rory's still form and saw Jeremy had pinned John down and was raining blows on his ribs and shoulders. John was holding his arms over his face as he tried to dodge Jeremy's punches. Through the sound of fists pounding flesh, he heard Sherlock shout out his name. He sounded frayed. John continued to put up a spirited defence, trying with his healthy arm and his thrashing legs to push Jeremy off him when suddenly, the thug was wrenched away from him and thrown onto the ground. Sherlock leaned over Jeremy and delivered two diagonal knife-hand strikes to his neck in rapid succession and Jeremy went still. Satisfied that their attackers were incapacitated for the time being, Sherlock immediately turned to John.

'Are you alright? God, he hurt you! The fucking bastard cut you!' he panted, frantically checking John for bruises. His eyes were clouded with panic as they flicked over John's face and neck and arms.

'I'll live', John said, breathless but not only from their encounter. Sherlock looked distraught and unfocused but he pulled off his scarf and tied it tight around the slash on John's forearm. His fingers trembled as they ghosted over John's bruised jaw. He gingerly rucked John's shirt up and looked at the darkening blotches where Jeremy had struck him.

'What the fuck were you thinking', Sherlock growled. His expression was inscrutable but for his eyes which were furious.

'Sherlock, please, I'm fine. Please, just relax.'

'Relax? Don't ask me to fucking relax! He cut you! You couldn't even defend yourself.'

'Sherlock, please, it's alright. I'll be alright. This is just a small wound. Probably doesn't even need stitches. It's alright.'

'It's _not _alright! What part of 'run' do you not understand?'

'He was going to knife you! Why would…how could you think I'd run? Would you run? Would you leave me behind?'

'Can you walk? We need to get out of here.'

John nodded but winced as Sherlock helped him to his feet. His ankle was mildly sprained and he limped in silence alongside Sherlock to the main road where they hailed a taxi and headed first to A&E at St. Bart's where John's wound was bandaged and then back to Baker Street.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

* * *

_John nodded but winced as Sherlock helped him to his feet. His ankle was mildly sprained and he limped in silence alongside Sherlock to the main road where they hailed a taxi and headed first to A&E at St. Bart's where John's wound was bandaged and then back to Baker Street._

* * *

Sherlock didn't look at John or speak to him throughout their taxi ride. He watched the city go by like a moving picture of people, vehicles and buildings in the frame of the taxi window. When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock paid the driver, got out and walked around the taxi, standing by John's door. He offered his arm as support but John declined.

'Thanks, but I can walk. I'm fine.'

'Fine', Sherlock spat and with a dramatic swirl of his coat, turned around and opened the door to the flat. He bounded up the stairs and waited at the top, stone-faced, watching John grimacing his way up the steps. Every hiss of pain from John stabbed him like a wound in his own body. John looked up at him and saw concern tinged with anger in his gray eyes. His unblinking icy stare, his clenched fists and his still-as-a-statue body all told John that Sherlock was _vibrating_ with emotion. He saw that Sherlock _needed _to touch him but wouldn't unless John asked for it.

'I think I overestimated how fine I am.'

No sooner had he said that than Sherlock glided down the stairs to wrap his arm around John's waist and pull his arm around his shoulder. 'Lean on me', he ordered when he realised John was not putting any weight on him, 'or I'll drop you right here.'

'Will you really?'

'I will.'

'Fine, I'll lean on you.'

They entered the flat and Sherlock protectively led John to his bathroom. They stood barefoot on the cold tiles while Sherlock undressed John, taking care around his bandage and bruises. John stayed still while Sherlock examined his naked body to his satisfaction and ruled that he would survive. He tried to pull Sherlock in for a kiss but his lips grazed a cheek when Sherlock turned to leave the bathroom. He returned a minute later, carrying John's shampoo. He still looked displeased.

'Can't I use yours?' John wondered aloud, his lips quirking upwards quizzically.

'I like the scent of your hair. Step into the shower and turn on the water. Hold your arm out of the spray. You don't want to get the bandage wet.'

While John did so, Sherlock took his own clothes off and presently stood behind John. He made a slight adjustment on the large showerhead and the flow changed to a wide fountain of water that coursed down both their bodies.

'Your bathroom is hedonistic.'

Sherlock didn't respond to John's playful jibe. Instead he poured out a bit of John's shampoo in his palm. 'Close your eyes', he murmured and ran his hands gently over John's wet hair, working up a rich lather.

'You're upset with me and I don't like it. Let's hear it, Sherlock. Yell at me if you must but talk to me.'

'You have to trust me, John! It was not courage but stupidity that you refused to recognise danger when it was upon you! '

'Do you really expect that I'll leave your side when we are in danger? Do you see what a _colossal_ idiot you are being right now? '

...  
'Sherlock, I'm fine. I really am. This will heal in a week. It's nothing. I've sustained worse injuries from rugby. I'm already feeling okay!'

'You may _not _have been okay! Do you get it? You asked me 'what you were supposed to do without me', do you remember?'

John nodded.

'What am I supposed to do if something happens to you?'

'You're nice, you'll find someone else', John echoed Sherlock's own words from that day.

'Do you think this is funny, John, or did all your intelligence just spill out of your head? I don't want anyone else. I want you.'

John's heart welled. His throat choked around words that he couldn't articulate. Thankfully, Sherlock was not finished.

'I need you to be safe. Next time, when I say run, run!'

John tried to mollify Sherlock by wrapping his good arm around his waist, kissing him and susurrating against his lips.

'What are you mumbling?' Sherlock huffed and pulled away.

'If you say run, I'll run with you. If you say hide, we'll hide.'

'You really think quoting Bowie is going to change my mood?'

'He also has heterochromia iridis, you know?'

'He doesn't. It's an enlarged pupil in one eye that gives that effect. I know you're trying to placate me using science but I'm still very angry with you.'

'Don't be angry with me, Sherlock', John looked at him dolefully, his large blue eyes brimming with love. 'Please, don't be.'

Sherlock kissed him softly.

'Why shouldn't I?'

'Because my love for you would break my heart in two.'

'My love for you requires that you let me wash you now.'

'It'll be my pleasure', John giggled.

'And it'll be my soap. You need to start using quality soap.'

'Hey!'

Sherlock kissed John and rubbed his soap bar in slow, erotic circles over his back, then his front and then down to his legs. Sherlock worked up a lather between his palms and slipped them between John's thighs. The heady scents of lavender and vanilla and coconut lent the air a meditative quality and John felt his breathing and his pulse slow down. Sherlock's soap was, indeed, exceptional.

'That smells nice.'

He heard Sherlock laugh softly and then foamy hands moved over John's groin, reaching into the warm crevices between thigh and pelvis and then circled around his hips to press into his cleft.

'Aaahh', John gasped. 'That feels _very_ nice. Uhnnn', he groaned.

'Does it now', Sherlock teased and ran his slick fingers along the length of John's cleft.

'Mmm…' John luxuriated in the small sparks of sensation created by Sherlock's wriggling fingers. 'Those boors, you fended them off quite easily' he observed, recalling Sherlock's unexpected display of self-defence techniques. 'Almost like you used a martial art.'

Sherlock titled his head in acknowledgement. 'Aikido.'

'You seem to be an expert at it.'

'I should be. I've been a practitioner of Aikido and Judo since I was seven.'

'Seven, huh? So how does a lumbering imbecile like Brian Simpson take down an expert in Aikido and Judo?'

'I did break his wrist first.'

'And yet he managed to knock you down.'

'I was distracted by something and he got in a quick upper cut', he shrugged.

'And what was it that distracted you?'

'Who.'

'Alright, who?'

'You.'

'Me! What did I do?'

'I saw you in the distance and it broke my concentration. _You_ broke my concentration', he accused.

'Why? You didn't even know me then.'

'I knew enough to want to know you. I knew you had a good heart, John', he said softly. 'I'd seen you around Uni. You were welcomed in every clique but you weren't one of them. You always stood just a little apart, you know?'

'Now you're being romantic, Sherlock!'

Sherlock smirked and John asked, 'So… if you wanted to speak to me, why didn't you just come up to me and say Hi?'

'I didn't think you'd like me. In any case, I'd say it worked out well. Not only did you talk to me, you even touched me', Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's glistening neck.

'Idiot', John huffed fondly and tightened his arm around Sherlock's waist. 'How could I not like you? Sometimes even the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't have an idea in his head', he teased.

'That's why I have you', Sherlock said gravely.

John's smile slowly disappeared. 'You have me', he whispered.

Sherlock pressed a wet finger over his furled entrance. John bit his lower lip.

'You like that?' Sherlock laughed and pushed his finger inside, just the tip, enough to breach the tight ring of muscle.

'I like that too much. Sherlock…god!'

'Hmm?'

'I want more. I want…'

'What do you want?'

'I want to have sex with you tonight. I think I can manage that though that bastard cut my wanking arm', he laughed bitterly, 'but I want you to come inside me. God, I'm going mad thinking about you coming inside me.'

'I'll come inside you', his smoky growl rumbled into John's neck and he slowly lowered himself to the floor, the tip of his finger still embedded in John's arse. His other hand stroked John's hip, warm and comforting, before pulling away. 'And you won't need your wanking arm. I'll make you come.' He pressed his lips to the small of John's back and pushed further into his hole, his ingress facilitated by a slippery fluid that felt cool on his skin. Odd, given that the shower was warm and a faint scent of banana floated up on the steam. Definitely not soap, then. One finger went all the way inside and pulled back out and when it pressed in again, it was joined by a second finger.

'When exactly did you get the lube?' John laughed. 'You're like some stealthy, lube-wielding ninja.'

'Big Banana', Sherlock murmured against a wet arse cheek.

'Is that the flavour or a compliment?' John chuckled.

'Both', Sherlock laughed and blew a stream of air up John's cleft and focused on his twitching hole.

The cool lube turned warm and John's gasp became a moan. He braced himself against the shower wall and wantonly spread his legs to give Sherlock more access. Immediately, a third finger pushed inside him and he felt stretched like he never had before. The knobs of Sherlock's knuckles provocatively rubbed the inside of John's tight ring as he slowly penetrated him with slippery fingers, in small increments, and then hard and all the way.

'Unhhh', John's chin dropped down to his chest and he panted.

'Am I hurting you? Should I stop?!'

John's hole instinctively clamped down on Sherlock's retreating fingers, trying to hold him inside. 'No, no! I just…I just want you to stay there. Don't stop. God, don't stop!'

Sherlock pulled his fingers out and ran them up and down John's cleft, caressing the dusky skin from top to bottom before pushing his fingers back inside John.

'Unh, if this is how your fingers feel, I think I'll come right when your cock first slips inside me. I need you, Sherlock. I can't wait. This is torture', he said and reached an arm around to grasp Sherlock's wrist and pull his fingers out of him.

'For me too', Sherlock growled and gently drew his fingers out. 'Now do you want to wash me?' he asked, rising to his feet.

Sherlock stood before him, water running through his matted locks in tantalising rivulets down his marble skin.

John sighed. 'Kiss me, Sherlock.'

Wet lips, warm and soft and loving, met under the healing spray and Sherlock and John melded into one, pressing their slippery bodies and moans and whispers floated over the gush of the shower and then flowed away with the stream.

'I'm sorry.'

'What are you sorry for?'

'I don't want to wash you today. I'm going to take too long with one arm out of commission and I can't wait to be in bed with you. Do you mind…?'

Sherlock laughed and kissed John softly. 'Not at all. You _are_ going to be too slow today and I don't want to wait either.'

'Git', John mumbled and took a step back to allow Sherlock to bathe. When he was done, Sherlock wiped them both down with decadently luxurious towels which they wrapped around their waists before padding into the bedroom.

Sherlock walked over to the windows and afforded them some privacy by drawing the heavy curtains over the fluttering sheer white panels, darkening the room while the evening sun shone outside. Then he pulled their towels open. 'Go, lie down', he instructed and stepped into the bathroom to drop the towels in the laundry hamper.

John sat on Sherlock's bed and ran his palm over the profligate smoothness of the navy blue sheets. _What is this? Six-thousand count Egyptian cotton? Or maybe this is silk. God, this belongs in a harem, not a bedroom. Harem. Oh, god! Now I want to see him in a sheer, embroidered robe and take my time disrobing and kissing every exquisite inch of his body._

John lay back on the bed, sinking into the most comfortable mattress he had ever experienced. A cloud-like pillow supported his head with just the right amount of firmness and he succumbed to the cushioned temptation with a groan of pleasure. A lavender-vanilla candle sat on the bedside table. _This is the height of extravagance. I am in love with Nero himself. Ha, happy coincidence. My Nero also plays the fiddle._

A minute later the naked form of Sherlock stood framed in the doorway, casting an achingly beautiful silhouette. Sherlock turned off the bathroom light and walked to the bed in the darkness. John watched, transfixed, his heart pounding in his ears as Sherlock lit the candle and the room was bathed in flickering gold . Sherlock's front was shrouded in near darkness but the dancing tongue of fire illuminated his irises like cat's eye marbles that were fixed on John.

'I love you, Sherlock. My beautiful love.'

Sherlock opened a drawer to pull out a bottle of lube and a condom. 'John…', he whispered and sat down on the bed next to his lover. 'I want you so much it feels like I'm burning. The things I want to do with you, _to_ you…' He pulled John close. 'I want to take you now', he growled against John's ear. 'I want to push into your body and ravage you till you cry out for me to stop.'

John turned his face for a kiss. 'How much longer are you going to make me wait?' he asked, brazen desperation bleeding into his voice.

Sherlock traced the dips and curves and planes of John's naked body, alternately shadowed and illumined by the fluttering flame. Then John's eyes drew shut as Sherlock's face closed over his and his mouth was claimed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

_Sherlock traced the dips and curves and planes of John's naked body, alternately shadowed and illumined by the fluttering flame. Then John's eyes drew shut as Sherlock's face closed over his and his mouth was claimed._

* * *

From the start, there was nothing gentle about the kiss. Sherlock was hungry, savage, desperate to possess and John gave as good as he got, biting when bitten, licking when licked, sucking when sucked. His body rose from the bed to press into Sherlock's but he was pinned down by his lover's weight. Sherlock roughly turned John's head to the side and descended on his throat, his mouth painting his neck and collarbone in kisses that bruised, dragging his lips and teeth down to John's chest and closing his mouth over one nipple which he sucked and nipped until he heard John cry out, a ragged sound of pain and pleasure. Sherlock tore his mouth off and fell over John's other nipple, hurting and owning John's tender flesh, nibbling and then licking an unguent of saliva on the reddened nub.

He drew his starving mouth down John's torso, marking the warm skin along the way, stopping only when his face was buried in the thatch of golden hair at the base of John's cock. Humid gusts of breath scalded John's skin and he cried out when moist heat closed over the tip of his cock; a second later, his entire shaft was sheathed in a wet, frenzied mouth that pushed and pulled on his flesh, maddeningly, provocatively, up and down, up and down until it was all he could do to cry out Sherlock's name, warning him that he was close. The wet lips retracted and the twirling tongue flicked across his oversensitive tip and John came gloriously, flooding the mouth that closed over his cock again. His body started to spasm but his legs were held down by Sherlock's hips which were settled on his knees; his shuddering torso was pressed down at his chest by the splayed fingers of one of Sherlock's hands while the other hand encircled John's cock and pumped it softly, in concert with his bobbing mouth. John looked down at the dark head hovering over his hips, feeling his cock being lovingly sucked and knowing Sherlock was lapping up every last drop of John's come. Sherlock moaned covetously around each fresh spurt of fluid, licking John's sticky skin clean and kissing the contracting flesh until it lay flushed and empty on John's thigh, wrung dry by his ravenous mouth.

Sherlock's head fell heavily on John's trembling belly, feeling his doctor's fingers painfully clench around his curls as he ached through the sweet torture of the aftershocks wracking his body. When his body finally stilled, John's fingers loosened in Sherlock's hair and he nudged him up.

'I love you', he whimpered, looking into a satiated sea of gray. 'Do you know how much? You can't know', he shook his head slowly and pulled Sherlock close to kiss his mouth, licking the remnants of his bitter ejaculate into his own mouth. 'Take me, love. Please, I can't wait anymore. I don't want to', he begged, spreading his legs around Sherlock's hips and thrusting up and grinding his pelvis against Sherlock's hardness.

'Ah! John! Oh god, I want you!' Sherlock gasped. 'I want to be buried inside you and own you. I'm going to make you mine tonight. But first, I'm going to touch you there, to open you some more.'

'I don't need any more. You opened me in the bathroom. Just take me', John begged. 'Don't make me wait. I need you inside me, now!'

'You don't know what you need, John', Sherlock murmured into the skin behind John's ear. 'I will never hurt you, sweet horny idiot, no matter how desperate I am to fuck you', he breathed and kissed John's lips tenderly, once, twice, a third time. Then he turned to the bedside table.

'Open up', he instructed John and when John tentatively spread his outstretched legs a foot and a half at his ankles, Sherlock laughed. 'Wider, John, much wider. I said "open" and "up". Fold your legs and bring your knees to your chest. Let me see you.'

John flushed, horrified at the prospect of being so exposed to his lover.

'You're the one who didn't want to wait anymore, John. You do realise that I'm not going to fuck you until I've opened you up to my satisfaction.'

'Sherlock…', he complained weakly. 'It's so embarrassing.'

'Why, John? I've already seen you. This is your body and I want it. I want you', Sherlock's husky words burned into his skin like love bites. He stretched on the bed next to John and buried his face in John's neck. 'Not a part of you but all of you. I want to learn your body by how it feels under my fingers, how it reacts to my touch. I want to know where you have hair, where you're smooth, where your scent is the strongest, where your skin feels warm, where it feels cold, where you are hard and where you're soft. I want to know everything about you. I _want_ everything about you. And when I'm inside you, I want go all the way inside, as deep as you can take me, as deep as I can go, so that all of my cock is inside you, wrapped in your tight heat.'

'You probably don't realise this but I can come from just listening to your voice. So the things you're saying aren't really helping my self-control.'

'I'll shut up, then', Sherlock laughed but turned serious again. 'I love you, John, but if this position is not comfortable for you, turn onto your stomach. You won't have to look at me looking at you.'

John gratefully turned onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Sherlock sat up on the bed by his hips and pushed his thighs apart. John felt soft lips press into the skin between his shoulder blades and the warm mouth dropped a trail of kisses down his spine all the way to the top of his cleft. He bit into his pillow and muffled a moan when a long finger probed inside his cleft again, feeling around the hot skin until it landed at his centre, at the most intimate point on his body. The finger pressed against his furled hole, dry and warm and John trembled. The finger withdrew and John felt empty.

'Hush, John', Sherlock leaned down to whisper against the crest of one arse cheek. 'I won't hurt you.' Seconds later, strong fingers pushed his arse cheeks apart and the space was filled with Sherlock's face. John closed his eyes, banishing every thought from his mind to focus on the inflammatory sensations sparking through his skin as Sherlock slowly rolled his face from side to side and his cheeks rubbed gently over his cleft, the faint drag of his light stubble incredibly erotic and masculine. Sherlock kissed the clean skin and breathed in the intoxicating concoction of John's musky scent mixed with lavender and vanilla and coconut and banana. He parted his lips and John shouted his mortification into his pillow when Sherlock's tongue drew a long, wet stripe along the length of his cleft, from his perineum up to the top of his cheeks. Sherlock blew a cool stream of air over the shivering wet skin and John felt utterly ruined when that hungry mouth descended on his hole and that questing tongue traced the ridged circumference of his most secret spot, loving and demanding, licking and sucking, nibbling and thrusting inside the tight orifice. A scalding tear rolled down John's face as he understood for the first time what it was to be enslaved, to _belong_ to another person with no boundaries.

John heard a bottle click open followed by a wet gurgle as lube flowed onto Sherlock's fingertips. Sherlock's tongue retreated and John felt a finger, wet and cold this time, touch his hole and with little fanfare begin to press into him. Soft and gentle at first but becoming hard and insistent until it breached his sphincter and slipped into his velvet heat.

'Ohhh, god, Sherlock', John cried; he instinctively arched his back, lifting his hips to give Sherlock more access and throwing his head back to hiss against the burn of the intruding finger. His head dropped heavily back on the pillow when the finger smoothly slipped all the way in.

He felt Sherlock's mouth on his arse cheek, nipping and kissing his sultry flesh while his finger penetrated him, over and over and over until John's passage was again loose enough to easily accept a second finger and then a third, thrusting in and out of John, slippery and hard and urgent, rubbing over his swollen prostate with each plunge.

'Unnnhhhh aaahhh ohgod ohgod oh- God!' John chanted as pleasure and pain colluded to torment him in the dance of fingers inside him.

'Shhh, I've got you. I love you, John.'

He sobbed under Sherlock's gentle onslaught, fingers relentlessly invading him, washing away the sandcastles of his shame in a surge of love and showing him there was nothing he need hide from Sherlock. Not now, not ever. A second orgasm was building up inside him, threatening to ravage him if he didn't stop.

'Sherlock, now! Please take me now! I can't wait anymore, please, love, my love.'

Sherlock pulled out gently and sat up to wipe his hand on a tissue. He tore open the condom packet, sheathed his cock and hovered over John's hips to enter him from behind but he started to turn onto his back.

'John…?'

'I want to see you, Sherlock, and I want you to see me when you're inside me', he panted and spread his thighs wide to accommodate Sherlock's hips, his slick opening brazenly exposed to his lover. He closed his legs around Sherlock's waist, locking them at his ankles. 'Take me, love. Make me yours', John pleaded, his eyes glistening with new, unshed tears. So Sherlock did.

'John…', he cried brokenly. He held his swollen cock at John's entrance and looked into his lover's eyes once more and pushed inside John slowly, gently, mesmerised by the sight of the flushed bulb popping past the ring of muscle and then disappearing inside John as it smoothly slid all the way in until his pubic hair pressed against John's cheeks. He fell over John, boneless and overcome, his face buried in his neck, shaking and breathing in fevered gasps into John's sweat-dampened skin. He held still, unable to believe he was inside John, that they were joined in this most primitive of ways.

'I love you', John gasped. He felt full. He felt ready to burst with love. 'You're inside me. You're inside me. Oh god, I love you. I love you.'

'Love, love…', a torn sob escaped Sherlock's lips and he began to thrust his hips, long and slow movements giving way to hard and fast snaps. John's hips started to roll in rhythm with Sherlock and they gave and took, owned and belonged, dominated and submitted until it was no longer clear who was fucking whom. And it didn't matter. Sherlock's mouth moved down to John's chest and stayed open against the plane of muscle in a silent cry while his hand curled around John's erection, pumping in time with his thrusts. Sherlock lifted his head and John felt hot puffs of breath against his face and moaned brokenly against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's breath faltered and his hips jerked erratically; his head fell weakly into the crook of John's neck while a ragged wave of release ripped through him.

The hand around John's cock loosened and fell away but he held Sherlock's body as he trembled through his orgasm. Heat pulsed inside his fluttering passage as the flesh impaling him throbbed with its relief. He was close himself so he reached his uninjured arm down to grasp his cock and pumped it hard, his hole reflexively clenching and releasing on each up-down stroke, driving his climaxing lover mad with a deluge of sensation. Three strokes later, Sherlock sank his teeth feebly into his chest; John's torso jerked and his belly and fingers were covered with a fresh spattering of ejaculate as he came a second time that night.

Together they rode the crashing squalls of agonising ecstasy, tossed about like rudderless ships, held steady only by their lover's devoted arms until finally the stormy waters gentled and their lengthening breaths and slowing heartbeats brought them to rest on placid waves of love lapping around their bodies like liquid kisses.

John tightened his legs around Sherlock's shaking hips and pulled him close; their skin slid over sweat and saliva and semen and he allowed his tears to fall, tears of gratitude, of surrender, of love. Sherlock lifted his head and John saw that his face was also wet. The two friends, the two lovers smiled at each other, a tender smile replete with adoration as they wiped away the other's tears.

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes wide and dark. 'Mine', he said, a simple but startlingly true statement of ownership.

'Yours', John confirmed, giving himself to Sherlock.

John stroked the side of Sherlock's face. 'Kiss me', he whispered.

'I haven't washed my mouth.'

John laughed. 'Do you really think I care? We've swallowed each other's come. You just fucked me into the mattress. I want you to kiss me. Kiss me till I'm dizzy, my love', John murmured against Sherlock's flushed lips.

So Sherlock kissed John for a long time after that. John tasted himself and he tasted Sherlock, his tears, his sweat and his love in that beautiful mouth.

'Are you mine?' John asked, his brow bunched and his eyes shining with love.

Sherlock bumped his nose against John's. 'I should clean us up', he said and pulled out of John to dispose of the condom and grab a bunch of tissues. He carefully wiped away all traces of saliva, lube, come and sweat from their bodies before lying down facing John. John's feet were tangled with Sherlock's and he looked up at his tall lover and held his gaze for a long time, content to look and stroke and kiss and nuzzle.

Then Sherlock nudged John up and slipped down the bed to bury his face in John's chest. 'If you were taller', he groused, 'I wouldn't have to sleep half way down the bed to reach your chest.'

'My growth spurt is done, you arse, and I've been this tall since we first met. It's a bit too late to complain about that.'

'Hmmrrr', Sherlock rumbled and hovered over John to press his open mouth to his nipple. His tongue licked the excited flesh and then his lips closed around the bud to pull on it repeatedly.

...  
'I love you, Sherlock. I don't think I know how to show you just how much', John's voice quivered.

Sherlock's mouth fell open against John's chest and he collapsed over him.

'If you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower', John continued to quote Bowie.

'I'm not a flower.'

'Fine. I'm a flower and you're my bumblebee, buzzing about my nipple like it's a pistil.'

'You're mad.'

'Mad for you.'

'Why? Why me? You could have anyone.'

'What's all this now?'

'Sherlock…look at me.'

'You should be with someone who won't drag you into dangerous situations and physical brawls and knife fights, someone who's not an anti-social curmudgeon and who'll do all the things all normal people do.'

'Are you trying to break up with me? Right after fucking me till I saw stars?' John chuckled softly. 'I don't want "_normal_". Normal is boring but you, on the other hand, are exciting', he gushed.

'Choose wisely, John! You've a strong, steadfast, _good_ heart, you're kind and intelligent, you cook well- '

'I cook well?'

'You do. It's an important skill and you're good at it. You also have the steady hands and comforting touch of a skilled healer. You have so much warmth inside you. You're always surprising. You're incredibly attractive, you're-'

'What?' John guffawed in disbelief. 'Now you're taking the piss out of me. I'm _not_ incredibly attractive! You're thinking of yourself!'

'Shut up. You don't see yourself like I do. You are distractingly handsome in your special rugged, roguish way.'

'And you need to get your eyes checked, Sherlock.'

'My vision is perfectly fine, thank you', he huffed and turned away from John, curling into a ball.

John could sense that Sherlock was irked that his line of questioning had been interrupted and also anxious because his insecurities had not been allayed. It was startling to him that Sherlock would have insecurities. To John the man was perfect and he would never tire of telling Sherlock that whenever he needed to hear it. He shifted onto his side and slid his arm over Sherlock to turn him around.

'Look at me.'

'Leave me alone.'

'Turn around.'

Sherlock grunted and reluctantly shifted his body to face John. But he looked down their bodies and wouldn't meet John's eyes, not even when John hooked a finger under his chin to tilt his head up.

'Sherlock…look at me. Please?'

Dark lashes lifted and crystal eyes met John's and he abandoned himself all over again to the conflicted and enthralling splendour that was Sherlock Holmes. He cradled that beautiful, guileless face in his hands and pressed a kiss to soft, warm lips.

'I - choose - you. It's the wisest choice I have ever made. I only want Sherlock Holmes. _You_ are all I want, right now and for the rest of my days. This time is truly the happiest I have ever been in my life. And I will love you forever.'

Sherlock lifted himself on one arm and gently pushed a blond lock off John's forehead.

'Forever is a long time.'

'Maybe this time is forever', he kissed Sherlock. 'Say it can be.'

'It can be. And you've moved on to George Michael.'

John laughed and kissed Sherlock. 'Is there anything you don't know?'

'About you, probably not', Sherlock snickered softly. Then he pulled his head up to look at John.

_'Being your slave what should I do but tend_  
_upon the hours, and times of your desire?_  
_I have no precious time at all to spend;_  
_Nor services to do, till you require.'_

John blinked at him. 'Byron?' he asked.

'Shakespeare's Sonnet 57.'

'You're so highbrow, my love.'

'Well, that's my repertoire - classical poetry. If that doesn't appeal, I'll quote your Mr. Michael and say...

_If you are the desert, I'll be the sea_  
_If you ever hunger, hunger for me._  
_Whatever you ask for, that's what I'll be'_

John kissed him with trembling lips, overcome with love but Sherlock pushed him back.

'I mean that, you know?'

John kissed him again. 'I hunger for you, only you and I don't want you to be anything other than exactly what you are. You are perfect like this, right now, in my arms. I love my brilliant, beautiful, mad, anti-social, curmudgeonly consulting detective', he choked out. 'I love only you.'

Their quiet confessions of love, their hushed giggles and loud sighs continued late into the night until, exhausted by the impassioned physical and emotional release of their joining, they answered the siren call of sleep.

'Yours', Sherlock whispered into John's hair, knowing from the hitch in the steady breath against his shoulder and the lips pressing against his skin that John had heard him.

* * *

**A/N**:  
Lyrics quoted from David Bowie's "Let's Dance" and George Michael's "Father Figure".


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

_'__Yours', Sherlock whispered into John's hair, knowing from the hitch in the steady breath against his shoulder and the lips pressing against his skin that John had heard him._

* * *

They sat in silence across the kitchen table the next morning. John felt different; his body had felt like an incomplete puzzle all his life but he had found the missing piece in Sherlock's bed. He dragged his gaze over the creamy flesh of Sherlock's neck and chest, now proudly blemished with purple bruises, proof of John's ardent surrender to Sherlock's inexorable yet tender possession of his body the previous night. _The showoff's deliberately left his kimono open; he knows what it does to me and he's trying to make me squirm. Not that I mind. Every twinge down there makes me feel he's back inside me. _

Sherlock glanced up at John shifting in his chair. His lips twitched upwards knowingly. 'You're so obvious.'

'It feels _lovely_, like you're still there', John grinned and held Sherlock's gaze through heavy-lidded eyes as he rolled his hips in a seductive circle on the chair. 'Can you blame me, ungh!' he moaned and bit his lower lip.

Sherlock shook his head. 'You're pushing twenty-eight, John, yet you act like a pre-pubescent who has just discovered the magic wand between his legs', he declared, hoping his dispassionate inspection of his toast sufficiently masked his delight at John's flagrant self-pleasuring. But John was not so easily fooled.

'Riight, and you're pushing twenty-six but the fact that your eyelids are fluttering and there's a pink flush running down from your cheeks all the way to your bloody belly is a sign of…what exactly?'

'It's a sign that I'm deep in the middle of a deduction', Sherlock said primly.

'It's a sign that that's a load of bollocks. You're as aroused as I am.'

Their eyes met at exactly the same moment and a chill of guilty elation sizzled through their bodies. Then they laughed together, realising they had absolutely no reason to feel guilty.

'I love you', John said and blew Sherlock a kiss across the table.

'Of course you do.'

'You're supposed to catch it.'

'Catch what?' Sherlock looked puzzled.

'The kiss!'

'Earth to John, this is _Sherlock_. I don't do plebeian things like that.'

'I'll bet patricians did it too if they were truly in love. Maybe you just don't love me', John sulked and pouted at his tea. Then he lifted his gaze and gave Sherlock a wide-eyed, hopeful look.

Sherlock sighed fondly. 'Fine', he yielded. 'Send me another.'

Warmth flooded his insides at the sight of John's bashful, beaming face. Then John puckered his lips and blew Sherlock a loud kiss. Sherlock made a show of catching it, pressing his fist to his lips and opening it with a flourish implying he was sending a kiss back to John.

'Satisfied?'

'Very!' John grinned.

'Good, because I'm never doing that again', he shook his head. 'Ever', he emphasized.

'I love you', John laughed and sat back in his chair to read the headlines out to Sherlock. 'You're in the news again.'

'Hmm?' Sherlock asked, elegantly chewing his egg.

'The Ivey case is all over the papers. "Ivey death ruled murder, not suicide." "NSY's private detective uncovers vital clues". That's you, by the way.'

'Ignoramuses! I'm a _consulting _detective! How can I be private if I'm mentioned in every bloody paper?'

John laughed genially. 'They've got it right in the body of the article, though. Oh, and _I've_ got an honourable mention.

_'Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and his sidekick, Dr. John Watson, were instrumental in proving the death was a homicide and not a suicide, as originally proposed by NSY._

'Sidekick? They make me sound like Robin to your Batman! Hmph...Anyway this is interesting.

'_James Ivey's life insurance policy worth thirty million pounds was scheduled to be paid yesterday to his sole beneficiary, his wife, Penelope Ivey. However, in light of the suspicious circumstances of his death, Royal Albion Insurance will withhold payment until the investigation is concluded.  
_  
'And there's some more about her accident and her parents getting custody of their kids and finances till the case is wrapped up. Wow, thirty million pounds. _She_ certainly had motive', John concluded, standing up.

'Motives. Greed and bitterness. Love gone bitter, especially.'

'So don't let our love go bitter, yeah?' John joked, dropping a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheekbone.

'Never', Sherlock purred, lifting his head to catch John's lips with his.

'Mmm…I've got to go to work, love. I'll see you in the evening?'

'Of course.'

* * *

The front door was thrown open at eight o'clock that evening and Sherlock blew into the flat like a storm. He was agitated. John had already showered and changed to his pyjamas and t-shirt.

'John! Come on', he led John into his bedroom. 'Do you remember, from the security tapes, that there was a group of four men who entered the building the morning of James Ivey's death? The Condominium Corporation was having their AGM that day and those men were from the audit firm. When I called the firm, they said they had only sent three auditors. So who's the fourth man? He never once looks up so his face is never caught on camera. The three auditors were not able to tell me much about him either. They thought he was a resident waiting to speak to the concierge. One of them took a look at his face and even remembered his eyes – one blue, one green. He confirmed the man was wearing spectacles but couldn't recall the frame. That's our man.'

'But who is he?' John pondered.

'Do you remember the Ivanhoe case?'

'Yeah, the embezzlement case from last week.'

'Exactly. Penelope Ivey is the daughter of Sir Basil Kenilworth and Dame Amelia Kenilworth. And you know the Kenilworth family owns the Ivanhoe Financial Group. My access to their records was revoked just before I could discover that identity of the account holder who received the twenty-eight million.'

'So how will you find out who the account holder is?'

'I already have', Sherlock smirked. 'I visited Mycroft today and _borrowed_ his computer while he attended to a call from Mummy. I told her he was neglecting his diet.'

John threw his head back and laughed. 'You used your mother to trick him into leaving his computer unattended?'

'It always works.'

Sherlock picked up two markers, black and red, wiped his whiteboard clean and began drawing ellipses and arrows. Then he stood back.

'That account is held jointly Penelope Ivey and Majority Mares, a horse-breeding company that specialises in thoroughbred female equines. Majority Mares, however, doesn't exist. The paperwork was doctored to open the account. The timing of these events is too close to be a coincidence. The two cases are linked somehow', he muttered to himself, studying his people-map with narrowed eyes. 'The man who killed James Ivey… who is he? What was his motive? How is he connected to Penelope?'

'A lover?'

'It's possible', Sherlock sounded distracted. He stared at the whiteboard. 'There's something. It's staring me in the face but…' Sherlock began pacing the floor. There's a link here that I'm not seeing and it's _eating_ me!'

'Hey, it'll come to you. It always does. Take your mind off this for a bit.'

'And how exactly do you suggest I do that?' Sherlock snapped.

John brushed off the slight. 'You can start by taking your clothes off.'

'Are you getting _amorous_ again?'

'I'm always amorous for you, Sherlock. But tonight, I want you to step into the bathroom, shower and join me in your bed. For you, not me.'

Sherlock's body relaxed imperceptibly and his narrowed gaze held John's. 'And then?' he asked, undressing.

'And then, you'll see… Go on, now. Don't keep me waiting…'

John waited while Sherlock showered and finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

'Come here', John sighed and pulled him free of his towel. 'Let me see you, gorgeous.'

'Mmm…kiss me, Jawn.'

'Oh', he breathed against Sherlock's lips and then the world faded into the background and all he knew was the feeling of his mouth seeking and finding Sherlock. John's breaths lengthened and then sped up, turning into gasps and then soft sounds of desire as his tongue collided with Sherlock's and his desperate fingers drew painful trails of need down his back.

'Jaawn…', Sherlock panted into his mouth half-heartedly.

John pulled free of Sherlock. He knew Sherlock was still preoccupied. 'On the bed, now', he ordered.

Sherlock lay flat on his back while John placed one knee on the bed next to Sherlock and leaned down to kiss his lover. Sherlock locked his arms around John's neck and pulled him down for a perfunctory kiss.

He pulled away to look at Sherlock. 'You're thinking about the case', he said, placing a tender kiss on Sherlock's temple.

'I- I don't mean to. My mind is racing and I can't stop it! I'm missing something and it's intensely aggravating! I'm sorry…', he looked up at John with regret.

John lit the candle, pushed himself onto the bed and stretched out beside Sherlock. 'Your work is important to me too. You know that, yeah? But sometimes', he kissed the edge of Sherlock's lips, 'you just need to put it aside for a little while', he whispered against his forehead, 'sleep on it', he kissed his cheekbone, 'and then look at it with fresh eyes. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Good. Close your eyes...' John crooned. 'I'll slow your racing mind down. Tonight is for you, my love.'

John kissed Sherlock on the forehead again. Then he dragged his lips over Sherlock's eyebrows, his closed eyelids, his cheekbones and cheeks and the corner of his mouth. Sherlock moaned and turned his head so that his lips were pressed to John's.

'Put the case aside. Stop thinking and focus on my voice. You're so lovely', John murmured against Sherlock's lips. 'Now kiss me.'

They kissed tenderly, their mouths moving hypnotically against each other. John's tongue slipped past Sherlock's lips, dreamy and wet, and licked the smooth, slippery skin on the inside of his cheek.

'Unhh', Sherlock moaned, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.

Slipping one arm under Sherlock's neck, John held his shoulders and leaned over him, his free hand pressed against his chest; he teased a nipple and lightly squeezed one pectoral before running his fingers down his ribs, feeling the hard ridges. He slipped his hand into the concave expanse of Sherlock's abdomen, their mouths still kissing, and pushed his hand down to his navel, rubbing his palm soothingly over the skin of Sherlock's sensitive underbelly. Then he slid his hand under all the way down to bristly thatch of hair and his hot flesh. The swollen shaft twitched when John's hand curled around it. He gave it a playful tug and felt it grow harder in his hand. Sherlock's hips jerked; he mewled into John's mouth, lifting a hand to bury in John's hair and pull his head closer.

The kiss grew more intense and more desperate. John's fingers left Sherlock's cock and traced the crease between groin and leg, pushing into the crevice so that Sherlock intuitively opened his thighs. He returned to Sherlock's cock and began to stroke it, slowly, luxuriously, dropping his hand to cup and caress his balls before returning to his erection. His dry palm started to feel rough against Sherlock's thin, sensitive skin so he pulled his hand out with a curse and lifted his head, breaking the kiss. Sherlock growled at the loss of hand and lips.

'Hush...I'll be a second…Stay down, don't open your eyes.'

John twisted his body to reach into the top drawer of the night table and pulled out a bottle of lube. With one arm still under Sherlock, it was hard to open the bottle.

'Sherlock…love…I need you to put some on my hand.'

Sherlock cocked an eye open and sighed at the interruption. But he took the bottle from John and popped it open to squirt the lube over his hand.

'I'm going to get down there again', John wiggled his slick fingers teasingly.

'You have a _standing_ invitation to get down there', he said unsmilingly and they both looked down his body and broke into a chortle at the silhouette of his impressive erection cloaked in the shadows of the dark room.

'See? You're enjoying this', John said, kissing Sherlock's forehead while his hand made its way back towards his cock. 'Close your eyes…'

John's palm was smooth and slick over Sherlock and his strokes gradually picked up in pace. Sherlock's head dropped to one side, resting on John's shoulder while his arms lay limply by his side, his entire being focused on the erotic feeling of John's hand moving over his flesh. He sighed heavily and a few strokes later, his breathing grew shallow and shivering and John knew he was close to the edge.

'You're so lovely, baby…', John whispered into the dewy skin behind his neck.

Sherlock started and opened his eyes. John had never called him by an endearment before. John's hand stilled while Sherlock stared at him. John swallowed. _Fuck, what was I thinking? Baby? How could I call him "baby"? He obviously hates it._

He licked his lips nervously. 'Not...not good?' he asked, his heart thumping hard in his chest. 'Sorry…I was blabbering again.'

'No…it's…it's fine…', Sherlock said haltingly, bewildered gray irises locked on John in an uncomfortably direct gaze.

'OK…'

'John…it's fine. Don't stop what you were doing.'

'Alright, close your eyes then', John said and started to stroke Sherlock again. His composure shaken, he stammered, 'Stop…stop thinking. Just focus on my hand. You're lovely, so lovely…'

Sherlock complied and once again John's hand started moving over his flesh and John's voice was low and deep in his ear, praising him, coaxing him into repose.

'Say that again. Call me...that', Sherlock urged breathlessly.

'What?'

'You know what. Please…', he implored.

'Baby…', John whispered tentatively.

'Unh...Jaaawwwn', Sherlock whimpered and curved into John's touch, his rolling hips languidly thrusting his cock through John's loose fist.

Reassured, John started to purr in Sherlock's ear. Unbidden words of adoration tumbled from his lips, naked in their sincerity. 'My beautiful, sweet baby...do you know how lovely you look like this, open to my hand, open to me, giving yourself to me? I love you, my sweetheart.' John sped up his hand and when he felt Sherlock's flesh start to pulsate in his hand, he growled 'Let it go… give in to me…Come for me… Now!'

The steely command shot right through Sherlock to his throbbing cock and he relinquished all control, his back lifted from the bed, arching stiffly from shoulders to hips; his lips twisted in a quiet snarl, more breath than sound, as he came gloriously in John's hand. His face glistened under a thin sheen of sweat and John's heart overflowed. 'Oh god, baby! You're beautiful. My beautiful sweetheart!' He worshipped Sherlock, dropping kisses on his wrecked, damp face, covering his mouth with his to give him his breath and take his silent cries from him, all the while tugging gently on his throbbing flesh.

Sherlock shook as the waves of his climax cleaved his careering mind from his convulsing body and for an entire minute, all thought ceased and his mind came to rest. John held him tightly until his body slowed down to a constant quiver.

'I've got you…I've got you, my love.'

Sherlock fell back to the bed, still shuddering erratically as John's hand slowed its movement on his flesh.

'Jaaawnn…unh…unh', he keened brokenly, the flare of his humid breath hot against John's neck.

'Hush, darling…I've got you. Let it all go. That's it…like that…like that…I'll hold you…'

Sherlock buried his head in John's chest and threw his arm around him.

'Jaawwnnn…you…'

He stopped speaking, his breath coming in gasps and slowing down against John's t-shirt. John tightened his other arm around Sherlock and pulled him close, dipping his head to press soft kisses to Sherlock's hair and temples and eyebrows and forehead, feeling him tremble and then calm and then suddenly shiver again. Finally, he knew Sherlock was done when his body went boneless against him and his cock went flaccid in his hand. They lay wrapped in each other like that for a long while.

'Let me clean you up, baby. I'll be back…'

'No! Don't go…' Sherlock bleated.

'Sherlock…sweetheart, I'll be back in a second. It's getting really gummy down there', John chuckled softly. 'My hand's going to be stuck between your legs if you don't let me go', he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's curls.

'Uhnnn…'

'I'll be back. I promise', he whispered into Sherlock's hair, 'my sweet, lovely thing.'

'Hmmrrr', Sherlock grunted unhappily but dropped his arm from John's back.

When John had disentangled himself, Sherlock settled on his back. John brought back a damp towel from the bathroom and when he arrived at the bed, Sherlock was asleep. He looked drained and slaked; his unlined features had a serenity that made him look much younger than his twenty-five years. John's heart welled and his forehead crinkled with fondness as he wiped him clean, making sure not to wake him. Then he pulled the sheets up to Sherlock's neck, ran his hand over his curls and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

'Zhhuunn…', he heard Sherlock say in his sleep-addled state.

'Sleep, baby…'

* * *

It was eight hours before Sherlock awoke. He emerged from his bedroom, fresh from his shower, clad in a gray shirt and dark suit. His steps were light and quick, alive with coiled energy. This was Sherlock on the chase. This was Sherlock when the game was on, utterly lovely and spirited like an untamed stallion, right down to the arrogant toss of his head. John watched him flit about the room, wonder and love brimming in his eyes.

'How is it you always know what I need?' Sherlock asked and leaned down to kiss John.

'Well…I have my uses', John shrugged bashfully.

'Those things you called me…', Sherlock stopped, awkwardly raking his fingers through his curls, 'they're-'

John looked up at him. His face was open but his jaws were clenched, ready for Sherlock to slight him for his syrupy and prosaic use of the English language.

Sherlock looked down. 'They are not unacceptable.'

'Oh.'

'What I meant is…you can continue to use them, if you wish.'

'Good, because I didn't want to stop.'

'So we are in agreement.'

'We are in agreement.'

'Good.'

'Good.'

Sherlock pulled on his scarf and coat.

'You're so lovely', John sighed.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut momentarily but he composed himself at once. 'Don't you have to go to work today?'

'I have the afternoon shift.'

'Hmm…I'm going to see Lestrade so I'll see you when I get back. I might be late.'

'See you later', John said, sitting down on the couch and adding as an afterthought, 'baby.'

'Yes, well…', Sherlock's cheeks coloured.

'You're even lovelier when you're self-conscious…', John laughed fondly.

Sherlock made a rumbling noise that didn't quite sound like a protest.

'My darling…'

'John!'

'I'll miss you, sweetie.'

'This is getting preposterous!'

'Why? I miss you when you're not with me. I really do!'

'Let me leave now or I never will.'

'I'm sitting on the couch and you're standing by the door, Sherlock. It's not like I'm holding you back!'

'That's not what I meant.'

'No?'

'No', Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I meant I won't _want _to leave.'

'Maybe you miss me too?'

'Stating the obvious is such a waste of time.'

'Telling me you miss me takes half the time it takes to say "Stating the obvious is such a waste of time." And it's so much nicer to hear.'

'You should know by now that I don't do "nice".' He swept out of the flat, reaching into his pocket for his phone, effortlessly slipping into his chosen public persona of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

Five seconds later, John's phone chimed. He had received a text.

_Of course I miss you.  
_  
_I know. Miss you too, baby. I love you. _

* * *

Four hours later, Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket just as he was leaving NSY. He pulled it out and frowned at it. No one called him unless it was absolutely urgent. 'Sherlock Holmes', he answered his phone with a frown.

'Sherlock!' he heard Mike Stamford's agitated voice at the other end of the phone.

'You know I prefer to text, Mike. What is it?'

'It's- it's John! He's unconscious at St. Bart's. He met with an accident, hit-and-run by a motorcycle.'


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

'_Sherlock Holmes', he answered his phone with a frown._

'Sherlock!' he heard Mike Stamford's agitated voice at the other end of the phone.

_'You know I prefer to text, Mike. What is it?'_

_'It's- it's John! He's unconscious at St. Bart's. He met with an accident, hit-and-run by a car.'_

* * *

Sherlock, are you there?'

'Yes- yes, I'm here.'

'He was just about to enter St. Bart's when it happened. He's unconscious but stable.'

'Sherlock?'

'I'm on my way', Sherlock bit out.

* * *

He bounded up five flights of stairs to Room 518 and braked his hurtling body by grabbing on to the door frame. 'Oh god!' he whispered, his insides disintegrating at the sight of John hooked up to too many tubes. Tubes poking into his arms, one tube running into his nostril, another running down his throat, tubes and beeping monitors everywhere! The sterile air and conspicuous absence of smell made him crave the normalcy of their flat, the chemical tang of his messy and frequently unstable experiments converging with the aromas of John's cooking, his flavourful tea, the whiff of fabric softener in his jumpers, the scent of his shampoo, the fragrance of his after-shave. The scent of John. The scent of home. He hoped John could hear his silent, despairing pleas because his voice was painfully choked in his throat. _'John…oh…oh god…oh god…John, please wake up, please wake up, please wake up…John-'_

'Sherlock', a familiar and unexpectedly comforting voice broke through his angst. A hand touched his shoulder.

'Mycroft…?' he looked up in mild surprise.

'Lestrade texted me and I happened to be close by. He's going to be alright, Sherlock. He suffered a severe concussion and also has a bimalleolar fracture in his right ankle.'

A full minute of stony silence passed while Sherlock stood by the bed, lost and helpless, looking down at John. His eyes flicked over John's palms, turned face up, his injured ankle sticking out from under the sheet, swathed in bandages. _Bimalleolar fracture. _His mind was in overdrive. He lifted the sheet; John's gown had ridden up, revealing the edge of a dark, long contusion on the side of his thigh, extending around to his hamstring. _Struck from behind. Wouldn't have seen the vehicle. No time to react. _His skin still bore fading patterns from the vehicle's tyre. _Motorcycle tyre. Characteristic Dunlop tread – Sportmax Q3. Exclusively used as the front tyre on the 2015 Triumph Trophy SE. _He lightly brushed John's hair from his forehead and then carefully unfurled his fingers and watched them curl back into his palms. _Bruise at his hairline._ _Scraped palms still carrying traces of dried blood and fine dust from impact with the road. Fell on his front and tried to brace his fall. Must have instinctively pulled up his left leg to help break his fall because his right leg was in pain and would have remained limp and outstretched. The rider reversed his motorcycle and ran it over the back of his right ankle multiple times, breaking both malleoli._

'Sherlock…'

'It's his birthday today. The idiot thinks I don't remember. It's his birthday and he forgets how to cross the street. Although this was no accident. What do we know about the rider?' Sherlock asked, his voice hard.

'You mean "driver"?' Mycroft countered.

Sherlock exhaled hard, annoyed that Mycroft chose this particular moment to test him. 'If I meant "driver" I would have said "driver". We both know it was a 2015 Triumph Trophy SE. The rider, please…'

Mycroft would have been disappointed if his brother had not worked that out. He would have been insulted if his brother had not acknowledged that he also had worked it out. 'The ambulance staff caught sight of a black Triumph. The rider was dressed in black from head to toe, with a black helmet. They couldn't see his face.'

'License plates?'

'There were none. Lestrade is looking into it.'

Sherlock nodded tautly. To an outsider, Sherlock might have seemed calm but Mycroft read despair and rage in those sepulchral gray eyes. He had never seen his brother boiling with emotion this intense; he found it deeply concerning.

'He's going to be fine and he's going to want to see _you _be fine when he comes to. I've arranged for another bed to be brought in here. You'll want to stay here, I presume?'

'Obviously.'

'Very well, I'll leave you with your doctor. He _will_ be fine, Sherlock. You can speak to the staff. I did and I'm convinced they know what they're doing.'

Mycroft left and closed the door behind him. Sherlock pulled a chair close to the bed and sat in it. He took John's hand in his and pressed it to his lips, taking care not to dislodge the fingertip pulse oximeter. Then he lowered John's hand to the bed and stroked his fingers. He looked at him lying there, frail and still and silent, for a very long time.

_'And you say __**I'm **__careless'_, he flung his unspoken complaints at the insensate man on the bed. _'Please come back…Open your eyes, hold my finger, call my name. Say something, give me something. I can't bear to see you like this. This is not you, lying with tubes running everywhere. You're a doctor, for God's sake! You're not __**allowed**__ to get sick. Wake up, John…please…' _he pleaded.

The steady beep of the monitor was the only sound in the quiet room. Sherlock found it hateful.

_'Is this your idea of a joke? And on your birthday? I know what it's like without you and I don't want to go back to that again. I'm not letting you go, John. You said you love me. You'll come back to me, you have to! You're just being a giant dick about it and making me wait. I can be patient. You'll see.'_

Two hours later, Sherlock was roused by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He had fallen asleep folded over in his chair, his head resting on the bed near John's motionless hand.

'Mr. Holmes…', a soft female voice called to him.

He looked up into the kind eyes of a nurse. 'Sorry, I-uh- fell asleep.'

'It's alright. Would you like to wait outside while I change Dr. Watson's dressings? Maybe get something to eat? You look like you could do with some sustenance.'

'I'm fine. And John- Dr. Watson and I are- partners. I'll stay, if it's all the same to you.'

'I have seen your pictures in the paper. He's a very dependable colleague, isn't he? I shouldn't be very long. You could also do with a break, I'm sure.'

'No, I meant we're…together.'

'Ah', the nurse smiled knowingly. 'In that case, of course you can stay, Mr. Holmes', she said and briskly went about changing John's dressings and the urine drainage bag. He had sweated through his gown so Sherlock helped her take it off John and waited while she wiped him down. Then he helped her put a new gown on John.

'He'll be fine, Mr. Holmes. He's a wonderful doctor and a good patient', she smiled. 'His vitals are strong, his pulse is steady and he's a robust man. Give it a day or two and he'll be back with us', she assured him.

'Thank you', Sherlock nodded.

'Would you like me to have some soup and sandwiches sent up for you? You could stand to eat a bit, you know?'

'Thank you but I'm not hungry. I'll just go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee.'

'Don't trouble yourself. I'll have coffee sent over. You stay with Dr. Watson now', she beamed and left the room.

The coffee arrived. Sherlock stood outside the room and drank two cups. Then he went back in and closed the door. Once again he was alone with John. He talked and John stayed inert.

He took John's hand in his and held it to his lips.

'Happy birthday, John.'

_'Thank you, Sherlock'_, John-in-his-mind smiled.

_'I have...had a birthday present in mind.'  
_  
_'Which was?'_

_'Me', _he hoped his kiss told John.

Apparently it did, because John's voice in his head asked, '_Naked, I hope?' _

_'Eventually.'  
_  
_'Happy birthday to me!' _imaginary-John said gleefully.

_'John, please, control yourself'_, Sherlock whispered to the quiet man in his mind.

_'I'll tell you that when your birthday comes around, git.'_

_'Don't be an idiot.'_

_'You were going to strip for this idiot today, Sherlock. I wouldn't be too cocky.'_

Sherlock kissed John's fingers.

_'Cocky, get it?' _he imagined John's laughing voice tell him.

_'I was truly looking forward to getting it'_, he admitted wordlessly.

_'Oh god! I love it when you talk dirty.'_

_'That wasn't talking dirty. It was a statement of fact. I can't wait till you take me.'_

_'Hamana-hamana-hamana.'_

_'I think I have broken your brain'_, Sherlock fondly chided John-in-his-head while real-John's eyes remained shut and his lips unmoving.

_'My sweetheart'_, Sherlock hoped awake-John would say.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head on the bed, next to John's still hand. He needed to hear John's sweet inanities again. He yearned for them. These illusory words were cold comfort and his imaginings of John left him begging for more. He drew his forefinger gently along John's eyebrow and down to his cheek.

_'You've got the beginnings of a moustache and stubble now. We've got to get rid of that as soon as you're awake'_, he thought-said, ghosting his fingers over John's unshaven chin.

_'Really? I was thinking of trying out a moustache.'_

_'Perish the thought! I like my doctors clean-shaven.'_

_'Doctors? Plural? Do you have another doctor on the side?' _he knew John would ask him with sad blue eyes.

_'Fine. I like my doctor, singular, clean-shaven. Happy?'_

_'Happy'_, he could hear smiling-John say.

_'But it's terribly distracting when you shave'_, he pressed his lips to John's warm palm, hoping to kiss away the bruises. The strong and steady pulse in John's wrist had a calming effect on him. He imagined John's heart must be beating for the both of them because his own chest felt vacant.

_'Why?' _

_'You always sing when you do and the songs you pick are invariably abysmal. You sing "lurrve" songs'_, he thought, his lips curling in mild distaste.

_'Those lurrve songs are for you. But if my abysmal singing is distracting, I can shut the door, if you want.'_

_'No…it's not your singing. And I uh- I don't want you to shut the door.'_

_'Oh…could it be- are you trying to say you find it...sexy when I shave?' _he imagined John asking him with a naughty grin. Even when John was unconscious, he managed to see right through Sherlock's couched confessions.

_'That is what I'm trying __**not**__ to say!'_ Sherlock sat up straight in exasperation. Then his shoulders sagged. _'But yes, I find you __**unbearably **__sexy when you do. I want to give you a shave one day. Will you let me or will you laugh at me for being ordinary? I think you've made me soft in the head.'  
_  
_'Why do you say that?' _the imaginary but ever-curious John wanted to know.

_'Because I look at you under the shower and then I want to study how the water runs through your hair, matting it up like a smooth helmet, turning gold to brown. The lather breaks up in little islands of foam on your body in a very specific order, almost like the contours of your body are controlling its movement before the water washes it away. You could be a golden merman, one who smiles too much, no doubt, but still, your gentlest smiles are reserved for me. When you look at me, all wet and smooth and glistening, your lashes clumped with heavy droplets of water, your eyes full of love for me, I just want to drag you underwater and kiss the air out of your lungs so that I'm breathing for you and you're breathing for me.' _

_'You love me that much?'_ John-in-his-head was overwhelmed.

_'I love you __**much **__more. When I'm in the grips of melancholy, you're like sunshine to my rain. I can see your heart'_, he thought, placing his palm flat on John's chest, _'shining in your eyes and in your smile but you only shine for me. I don't want you to shine for anyone else. Ever. Do I even deserve you, John? __I am always in danger of my feelings engulfing me, this- this uncontrollable desire to consume you and pull you inside me so that you can never leave me. What can I offer you so that you stay? I don't know what I'd do if you left me. My…__**need**__ for you gets so intense sometimes that I feel I'm drowning and then I see you and just seeing you pulls me back to the surface and makes me breathe again. Am I going mad? Is this love or an obsession? I don't know. But this is the only way I know to feel.'_

He pressed his lips to John's wrist. 'Wake up', he whispered.

* * *

Sherlock was roused by a hand shaking his shoulder. He blinked his bleary eyes open. 'Mike?' he asked. 'What time is it?'

'It's eight a.m. Do you want to head home, freshen up and come back?'

'Yes, thank you', Sherlock said, swinging his legs off the guest bed and lifting himself into a sitting position. 'I'll be back within the hour.'

'Take your time. I have two hours before my shift begins.'

Sherlock leaned over John. 'I'll be back before you know it', he whispered, squeezing his inanimate hand. 'You'd better be awake when I return.' Then he turned to Mike. 'Thanks, Mike.'

* * *

Sherlock returned fifty-five minutes later. Mike was reading a magazine.

'Thanks, Mike.'

'No problem at all. Dr. Schmidt stopped by while you were gone. John's stable and his readings are getting stronger. So it's only a matter of time before he comes to.'

'Good, that's good', Sherlock nodded, unconvinced.

'He'll be fine, Sherlock.'

'Yes, he has to be fine', Sherlock bit out.

Mike thumped him lightly on his shoulder. 'Take care, yeah? Of yourself, too. I'll stop by again later today.'

Sherlock nodded and Mike left.

He held John's hand to his lips and waited. And waited. John stayed still and uncommunicative. The next morning, Sherlock sat by his bed and read out facts from an article on the mating habits of bees. That article must have had mysterious healing powers because later the same evening, John slowly regained consciousness. His unfocused and unsteady gaze flitted around the room and melting walls and settled on the face peering at his. The haze in his mind was pierced by the penetrating scrutiny of the man leaning over him and he had his first coherent experience – the sight of Sherlock's furrowed brow over gray eyes wide with worry. Blinking slowly, he forced his eyes open to meet Sherlock's, fighting the sluggishness, and deliberately shifted his bleary gaze down to his own hand. Sherlock looked down and saw John feebly wiggle his fingers. He immediately took John's hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. John closed his eyes, overwhelmed, and sank into welcome insentience.

When he came to again, he had no awareness of how much time had passed. The nurse removed tube after tube until John finally looked like John again. Tired, but still John.

Sherlock thrust his hands into his coat pockets and watched silently as the nurse changed John's bandages and his gown. Dr. Schmidt bustled in and tut-tutted while he checked John's vitals and his vision, studied his charts, made his notes, gave his instructions to the nurse and finally addressed Sherlock.

'Dr. Watson will be fine, Mr.?'

'Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Ah. I had the pleasure of meeting your brother, I presume. And I use the word pleasure quite loosely', he joked. 'Our exchange was tantamount to an inquisition, if I may say so.'

Sherlock's silence was deafening. Dr. Schmidt cleared his throat uncomfortably and summarized John's situation for with Sherlock who digested the news with an inscrutable expression that couldn't hide from John his overwhelming relief.

'Well, Mr. Holmes, John suffered a concussion from his fall. He also sustained a bimalleolar fracture in his right ankle from vehicular impact. Both the medial and lateral malleoli, the bases of the tibia and fibula, are broken where they are joined to the foot by ligaments.'

'The motorcycle's tyres ran over his ankle', Sherlock said tightly. 'Multiple times.' His jaw clenched.

'Yes…I'm sorry, how do you know that?'

'I observed', he said with an impatient sigh.

Dr. Schmidt cocked a skeptical eyebrow but continued. 'Yes, well, we have inserted special screws and metal plates to hold the bone fragments together while they heal. As accidents go, he couldn't have been more propitiously located when it happened. He was in the operating theatre within ten minutes of the incident. John's chances for a full and quick recovery are very high. He could experience dizziness, headaches, numbness and disorientation for a few months. He'll also need a cane because his right ankle will be in a cast for six weeks after which we will replace it with a removable brace. Then I expect around eight to twelve weeks of rehab before his ankle's fully healed. He should be fit for work in a month but when he thinks he's ready to resume, he should come see me and we'll make sure he's really ready.' He shone the full force of his thousand-watt smile on John. 'I know how much you enjoy your work but I don't want you swooning in the arms of our lovely nursing staff. We'll monitor you for another day and if you keep up like this, you should be able to go home in two days' time. Any questions?'

'No…', John rasped wearily and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. 'Thank you.' He felt his faculties gradually returning to him.

'Let's get you some water. You just rest now and get your arse back where it belongs, mate! The nurses have been tittering about, waiting for you to get back on your feet! They miss the dashing Dr. Watson with the jaunty smile that can cure all ills, you know?' Dr. Schmidt let slip tactlessly. 'I daresay a few of our male staff seem equally distraught', he waggled his eyebrows with a laugh.

John noticed through the thicket in his mind that Sherlock's dour expression had turned murderous and could have incinerated a pound of cardice within seconds; he held a shaky hand out to him. Sherlock immediately took John's hand and when he felt an exhausted but fond squeeze, he squeezed back and the diffluence of his discomfort was plainly manifested in his features which settled into a placid, reassured smirk. Then John smiled faintly at Dr. Schmidt.

'Ah! I see', Dr. Schmidt said apologetically. 'I'm so sorry. I should stick to medicine', he laughed.

'It's alright. Thank you, Dr. Schmidt', Sherlock said gravely. He chewed on his lower lip, wanting the doctor leave him with John.

'He'll be fine, Mr. Holmes. You have a nice day, now. I'll give you some privacy', he said with a wink and closed the door behind him.

'Hi', John smiled weakly.

Sherlock said nothing. He loomed over John, frowned and bent down to kiss his lips but John turned his head away. Sherlock straightened immediately and glared at John, more hurt than annoyed.

'I haven't brushed my teeth in two days. I'm not kissing you until I have scrubbed myself clean to my satisfaction', John explained with an exhausted wheeze.

Sherlock mumbled a curse over a loud exhale and kissed John's forehead. He sat down by the bed and took John's hand to his lips. His breath shuddered and his shoulders shook a little with dry sobs until John lifted his other hand and slowly stroked his curls. They sat that way for a long while. Sherlock lowered his head onto John's chest so that he wouldn't have to raise his arm to touch his hair.

'You're not eating', John stated. Even in his fatigued state, he could tell Sherlock was neglecting himself.

Sherlock looked up. 'How could I when my chef was lying down on the job?' he huffed, petulant and adorable.

'Sorry.'

'Shut up. You really sleep too much, John. This is inexcusable.'

'I don't want you to see me like this. I'm sure I look a lot worse than I feel and I don't want you to worry.' He stopped to close his eyes, struggling against the torpor that still pervaded his body.

'And I said shut up. I can't wait to take you home.'

'I can't wait to go home, love. And now that I'm awake, I want _you_ to go home, eat something and sleep. You've got dark circles and your skin's sallow', he laughed. 'I want my gorgeous detective back.'

'I'm not going anywhere. I have a bed here.'

'Sherlock, I am in no position to force you but please, listen to me…'

'No.'

'Sherlock, please, you need to go home and get some rest. Will you do that? For me? When you come back, I want to see the Sherlock who said he misses me.'

'That Sherlock's an idiot. He should know he can't leave you alone to do anything because you seem incapable of even crossing the street without hitting something.'

'He's perfect, so shut up…Now go home, love. Please…I don't like seeing you like this, all pallid and tired. Don't take that vampire thing too literally, yeah?' he teased. 'I want you to look like you still belong in the land of the living, not the undead.'

'I'm not going anywhere, John', Sherlock said firmly.

'Mycroft?' John looked beyond Sherlock's shoulder. 'Help me?'

Sherlock spun around to see Mycroft standing quietly in the doorway.

'Do you just skulk around hospitals and creep up on unsuspecting people? Don't you have a country to run or bomb or something?'

'Happy to see you too, little brother. Don't worry, John. He'll eat and he'll sleep. Mummy has trained me well in my duties as my brother's guardian. Of course, since you arrived on the scene, I haven't had to do much of that. Made me feel somewhat…redundant in the family.' He punctiliously plucked out an imaginary piece of lint from his suit collar.

'You've always been redundant', Sherlock snapped grumpily. 'Do us all a favour and leave us alone.'

'I'm taking you back to Baker Street, Sherlock. Don't make me order you.'

'I'd like to see you try.'

'Well, you're an adult, physically, at least, and neither of us needs to suffer the indignity of me manhandling you. Perhaps you'd like to have a word with Mummy instead? I can put you through', Mycroft threatened unctuously, dialling a number into his mobile phone.

'Oh shut up. Running to Mummy. How mature.'

'It is a tactic I learned from you, brother mine. I do know you appropriated my computer while Mummy berated me about my diet.'

'Fine! I'll go back to Baker Street. I'll come back tomorrow morning.'

John smiled at the siblings. Adults they might be, but inside they were simply two brothers with an unspoken yet deep love for each other and an endearing respect for their mother.

'John…'

'I'll be fine, Sherlock. I- uh- ', he stopped so that his eyes could speak to Sherlock and show him what he couldn't say because Mycroft was still in the room, standing at the door behind Sherlock.

Sherlock read his love in his eyes. 'Me, too', he mouthed. He touched his lips with his fist and unfurled his fingers in John's direction. John nodded slowly and his smile was reflected in his eyes.

* * *

When Sherlock reached Baker Street, he showered, pulled on pyjamas and a t-shirt and checked his phone. He had received a number of texts from Lestrade and Harry. He scrolled through them quickly and responded that John was fine.

Then he checked his emails. One was from a blocked email address. He ignored it because he was staring at another new email. A frisson of anticipation passed through him at the sight of that unread email. It was from Victor. The subject said: _"Coming to London. Need to see you."_


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

_A frisson of anticipation passed through him at the sight of that unread email. It was from Victor. The subject said: "Coming to London. Need to see you."_

* * *

After John, Victor was the only person to have broken through the walls he always erected around himself. He bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the phone. He read the subject line again, trying to infer the thrust of the email. _"Need" to see you, not "want" to see you._ This did not suggest an attempt to rekindle their relationship. Good. He took a deep breath and opened the email.

**_Subject:_**_Coming to London. Need to see you._

_**Message Body:**_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I hope you are well. I know this email must be most unexpected and probably unwelcome, given how things ended between us. I'm sorry to trouble you like this but I need your help._

_My father, Daniel Trevor, is in London. He is being investigated for a financial offence he did not commit. He is an upright man who has never broken the law and we are certain he is being framed, but by whom and why we do not know._

_I will come to London as soon as the Australian government has completed its investigation of my financial affairs and cleared me to leave the country. Until then, my father has no one in London in whom he can confide. I hate to impose on you like this but I cannot trust anyone else in London. Could you possibly find the time to meet him and speak to him about this? The Financial Conduct Authority has placed him under house-arrest at the Windsor Arms hotel._

_I know you do this professionally now and if you will not accept my appeal as a friend, I hope you will accept it as an arms-length assignment from a client. But please, I implore you, at least consider it. I believe you will be able to exonerate him of any wrongdoing if you were given all the facts._

_I would appreciate it if you could reply to this email either way. I am also relying on your discretion as none of this information is public yet._

_Thank you, Sherlock. I hope to hear from you soon._  
_Victor_

Sherlock lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, going over Victor's email in his mind. _Victor. Victor. Victor. What will John think? Victor needs to know that I'm with John now. He has to accept that John knows everything about my cases._

He replied to Victor.

_**Subject:** RE: Coming to London. Need to see you._

_**Message Body:**_

_Hello Victor,_

_I should inform you that John Watson is my partner now, in every sense of the word, and has my implicit trust. I will take your father's case on condition that John is made aware of everything I do as he collaborates on all my cases. If this is not acceptable to you, I am afraid I cannot undertake this investigation. I shall await your response._

_Nonetheless, I am happy to hear from you again although it would have been preferable if the circumstances were different. I look forward to seeing you._

_You will always be a friend._

_Sherlock_

Victor responded within fifteen minutes.

**_Subject:_**_ RE: Coming to London. Need to see you._

_**Message Body:**_

_Congratulations, Sherlock. I think I always knew it would be John._

_I would have preferred that the information stayed with you. However, if John is your colleague as well, I have no objection to sharing all details with him. Please arrange to meet my father at your earliest convenience. I will let him know right away that you will contact him._

_Thank you, Sherlock. I will be there as soon as I can._

_Vict_or

Sherlock read his response and tossed the phone on the bedside table. The ceaseless anxiety of the past few days had drained him but John was finally awake. The gnawing in his heart had eased and he allowed himself to sink into the welcoming comfort of his mattress and slipped into a deep nap. He awoke two hours later, rested, hungry and eager to see John again and to solve a case. He made himself coffee and then dialled a number.

_'Good afternoon, Windsor Arms Hotel. How may I direct your call?'  
_  
'I'd like to speak with Mr. Daniel Trevor, please.'

_'Certainly. Who shall I say is calling?'  
_  
'Sherlock Holmes.'

_'Please hold the line while I put your call through to Mr. Trevor's room.'  
_…

_'Hello, this is Daniel Trevor.'  
_  
'Mr. Trevor, this is Sherlock Holmes. I am a friend of Victor's. He believes I might be of some assistance to you in your current predicament.'

_'Sherlock Holmes, Victor's friend from University. Yes, thank you for contacting me. Victor did say he would reach out to you for help.'  
_  
'I can meet with you today, if you are free.'

_'Thank you very much. I am not permitted to leave the hotel so if you could kindly visit me here, I will have it cleared with my minders.'  
_  
'Very well, I should be there within the hour.'

_'Thank you, Mr. Holmes.'  
_  
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock stood in Daniel Trevor's room.

'Mr. Holmes, thank you for coming.'

'Please, call me Sherlock. Victor's a…dear friend.'

'Yes, he told me. He was- is very fond of you.'

'I…know. But I am with someone now.'

Daniel Trevor nodded. 'Thank you for speaking with me.'

'Would you like to take me through the particulars of your situation?'

'Yes, of course. Can I offer you something to drink?'

'Black coffee with two sugars, please.'

'Certainly.'

They settled on the sofas, facing each other, and Daniel Trevor began to recount his experiences.

'I'm being accused of approving the transfer of fifty million pounds to an ANZ account that has been under Compliance Review for the past five months.'

'Why is the account under Compliance Review?'

'Money Laundering and Terrorist Financing activities. I am being charged with a very serious crime. Naturally, both the British and Australian governments are looking into it and I hear the Americans are also starting to get interested.'

'And what is the receiving account?'

'Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to divulge that information.'

'Mr. Trevor', Sherlock said patiently, 'your son approached me because he felt he can rely on my discretion. I don't expect you to trust me but if I am to be effective, I need all the facts you can give me. I have other ways of procuring these details but in the interests of time, you might want to furnish me with all information to which you are privy.'

Daniel Trevor nodded uneasily. 'It's uh- this is top secret. It really is. That account is held by the Khumrani Democratic Mission. It was started in Khumran as a humanitarian undertaking but its leader was ousted, well…murdered, by his power-hungry son and the KDM quickly devolved into a militant organisation. The account was to remain under Compliance Review until ANZ had garnered enough evidence of their illegal operations to close the account and hand the investigation over to the Australian government.'

'Did you authorise the transfer?'

'Evidently, yes.'

Sherlock cocked an inquiring eyebrow.

'It's my signature on the transfer papers.'

'Did you intend to do it?'

'Absolutely not! I have no recollection of having signed them! I'm being framed. I was well aware that this account was under review by the company watchdog division and would never have sanctioned the transfer, considering I was _on_ the committee that recommended the review.'

'Why you? Could someone have targeted you personally?'

'I don't know if it's personal. I can't think of anyone who would have a personal grouse against me. It uh- it could just be that I am one of only ten members on the Board of ANZ that have the authority to approve transfers of over twenty-five million pounds. I _genuinely_ don't know why I was chosen to sign the transfer.'

'Interesting', Sherlock murmured to himself, joining his palms and resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. 'So, why are you in London?'

'I came here a week ago to attend the Global Financial Leaders Conference. I am also overseeing the establishment of a new affiliation between ANZ Bank and the Wachovia Trust. It sets the stage for fifteen billion pounds of business over a ten year period. I signed the Memorandum of Understanding at the conference.'

'Did you sign anything else? At the conference or any other time while in London?'

'No!' Trevor insisted. 'At least not that I'm aware of', he amended, shaking his head uncertainly.

'When and how were the MoU papers presented to you at the conference?'

'I had them with me in my hotel room the night before the conference. I wanted to review them once again to make sure they were all in order. My assistant in London took them from me the same evening.'

'He came to your hotel room?'

'Yes. He also brought the papers to us at the conference to be countersigned.'

'Who is "us"?'

'Me and my counterpart, Mr. Anthony Stephenson, Wachovia Trust's representative and authorized signatory. It's all on camera.'

'Ah, pictorial evidence.'

'Yes, photographs and video. I can get you everything.'

'That will be very helpful, indeed. Can you have it delivered to my residence? 221B Baker Street. And I'll need to speak to your assistant. He may have had contact with someone else. What is his name?'

'Sebastian Moran.'

'Do you suspect anyone in ANZ of having connections with the KDM?'

'No, not really.'

'Very well, I have what I need for now. I will be in touch once I've received the tapes.'

'Thank you, Sherlock. I will make sure my team of lawyers is available to you around-the-clock and that you are given access to any information they can get you.'

'That will be most helpful', Sherlock said, shaking Trevor's hand. He paused at the door. 'One last thing. Did you know Moran before this?'

'Actually, no. I only met him on this trip. He was assigned to me the day before I landed.'

Sherlock nodded and left the room. He headed down in the lift and hailed a taxi to go to St. Bart's to see John. On the way, he emailed Victor.

**_Subject:_**_ RE: Coming to London. Need to see you._

_**Message Body:**_

_Hello Victor,_

_I met your father today. I will take his case._

_John is in hospital and I'll share details with him when he's back in Baker Street._

_I look forward to meeting you when you arrive in London._

_Sherlock_

A minute after he hit Send, his phone chimed with a reply to his email to Victor. It was from an unknown sender.

_**Subject:** RE: Coming to London. Need to see you._

_**Message Body:**_

_Tsk tsk, Mr. Holmes. Such a nosy detective. You should know when to take a hint. Dr. Watson is so very frail in his hospital bed, isn't he?_

_If you don't stop prying into matters that do not concern you, I assure you his next mishap will be terminal._

_You decide._

Sherlock's hand tightened around his phone. His body went absolutely still but his eyes blinked and flitted rapidly as he struggled to rein in the uncontrolled panic that was numbing his thoughts and gradually channeled it into a slow eruption of rage at this mysterious person who had dared to harm John. On a hunch, he decided to open the blocked email. He noticed the message was dated the day of John's accident.

_Dr. Watson's accident should be warning enough, Mr. Holmes. Stay out of the Ivey affair or the next time, the dear doctor will lose a limb. Or his life.  
_  
His email account and very likely his phone had been hacked. But the murderer had made a critical mistake – he had voluntarily claimed responsibility for John's accident and inadvertently revealed that Daniel Trevor's case was linked to the Ivey case. And now he had a wrathful and very determined Sherlock Holmes looking for him.

John could never know about this case. John could never be put in danger again.

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and asked the taxi driver to take him to a different address. His eyes were cold steel and his jaw was set as he dialled a number, agitatedly tapping the fingers of his other hand on his thigh while waiting for his call to be answered. He decided it was time he had a word with his brother at the Diogenes Club. 'Mycroft, I'm on my way. I'm going to need some of your double-oh-seven gadgetry. And I need an email traced. This stays between us.' He disconnected and forwarded the anonymous email to Mycroft.

* * *

When he left the Diogenes Club, he was armed with a new mobile phone secured by Mycroft's own security detail. He stopped by St. Bart's and found John sleeping. John's phone sat on the bedside table and he swiped it to unlock it but was presented with the locked screen. John took at least the most basic preventative measures. "I A LOCKED" it said. He smiled affectionately and typed in "SHER". The phone's home screen appeared. Silly, adorable John couldn't even keep him out of his passwords. He updated his phone number in John's contact list and applied a format mask and password to the number so that it wouldn't be visible in plain text should anyone else get access to John's phone. Then he ghosted his hand over John's hair, turned around and returned to Baker Street.

* * *

_Moran. Moran. What's his angle in all this?_ Sherlock did not want John to find any traces of this investigation on his laptop and logged on to his own laptop. A Google search turned up very few hits for Sebastian Moran. His online professional profile did not have a photograph but indicated that he had joined ANZ Bank London less than a month ago. Sherlock dialled the board number and used the Last Name option to be connected to Moran. His voicemail said he would be out of the office for an indefinite amount of time. He found it suspicious that someone was permitted an extended leave of absence a week after joining a firm.

The tapes from the conference were delivered to Baker Street the same evening. Sherlock watched the main footage from start to finish.

The camera was placed directly in front of the dais where Daniel Trevor and Stephenson were seated. Moran entered the frame, his back to the camera. He walked up to the dais and placed the file before Daniel Trevor first and waited while he signed the papers. Trevor signed three sheets of paper at a time, holding them up sequentially by the edge and signing and dating them before turning them over face down and picking up the next three. When he was done, Moran took the file and turned it around; he appeared to be rifling through the papers to make sure they were in the correct sequence while Trevor and Stephenson exchanged pleasantries. Then Moran lifted the papers as a bunch, held them upright and tapped them on the table-top into a neatly stacked bunch before placing the file before Stephenson. The Wachovia Trust officer countersigned the papers, handed the file back to Moran and stood up. Trevor rose to his feet as well while Moran exited to the side and out of camera range. The two new business partners shook hands to rousing applause from the attendees.

Nothing seemed amiss except that Sherlock had counted _twelve_ sheets signed by Stephenson and _fifteen_ signed by Daniel Trevor. Three documents had mysteriously been removed from the stack of papers between Trevor signing them and Stephenson receiving them. But how?

Sherlock rewound the video to the point where Daniel Trevor began signing the papers and slowed the footage down to step through it frame by frame. He zoomed in on the documents and stopped on the fourth, seventh and tenth sheets. The footer on those documents said 'ANZ Bank Transfer Authorisation.' The footer on all other documents said 'Memorandum of Understanding between ANZ Bank and Wachovia Trust.'

He quickly reviewed the remaining video files and found around ten minutes of footage taken from a camera off to the side. It showed Trevor finish signing the papers and then turn to speak to his counterpart while Moran, under the guise of arranging the papers, craftily extracted a few sheets intermingled with the MoU and tucked them into a concealed inner sleeve in the file before presenting the file to Stephenson. Sherlock zoomed in on Moran's profile; curiously, he wore spectacles with a silver-violet frame.

Sherlock dialled Lestrade. 'I need an address for Sebastian Moran. Last known employment – ANZ Bank London.'

'Hold on…hey Alistair, look up this guy for me? Sebastian Moran… … … Yeah, yeah, that's the guy. ANZ…yeah. Okay, thanks. Sherlock, got a pen handy?'

'Text me the address.'

'Will do.'

Sherlock's phone chimed with a text message.

_27 King's Cross. GL_

When Sherlock arrived at 27 King's Cross, he was met with a thin sliver of flickering light and raucous dialogue from behind the door. It was not shut so he pulled on gloves and pushed it open carefully, still standing outside the flat, and peered into the living room. The flat appeared to be empty but for a man sitting on the sofa, holding a remote control in his limp hand that rested on his thigh while he stared lifelessly at the blaring telly. A large stain of blood from a bullet wound formed a macabre Rorschach on the front of the man's t-shirt. He must have doubled over after being shot and been pulled upright to lean back on the sofa. The blood on his t-shirt still looked damp. Sherlock estimated that he had been murdered no more than an hour before his arrival.

This was not the man in the conference video footage.

Sherlock entered the room and looked around. The man's laptop and mobile phone sat on the table. Sherlock activated the phone. There was no password on it. He accessed the Facebook app and was automatically logged into Sebastian Moran's account. One picture, taken the day before, showed the dead man kissing the cheek of another man and was tagged 'Me and Jimmy.' The man being pecked wore silver-violet spectacles and had one blue eye and one green eye. This was his first look at the murderer's face and now he also had a name. _Jimmy_. Sherlock forwarded the picture to himself and called Lestrade to report the murder. _Jimmy_ had left yet another victim in his wake.

Sherlock stepped back out onto the cold streets of London to locate the operatives of his homeless network. He had a job for them – find "Jimmy". They were much better connected and consequently much more effective than NSY.

Two hours later, he stood at the London Eye, looking up at the giant dial. In the distance, he espied Toby making his way towards him through the throng of tourists. Toby approached, bumped into Sherlock and continued on his way. Sherlock turned around and walked towards Westminster Bridge. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper Toby had slipped in when he brushed past him earlier. A fleeting smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips. "Jimmy" had been seen at the South Kensington Rehab Centre. He was there to see Penelope Ivey and had given his name as James Moriarty.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

John returned to Baker Street the following day. He stood at the door, leaning on his cane and resting his injured leg gingerly on the ground. It was wrapped in a thick cast.

'You're sleeping in my bedroom', Sherlock stated flatly. 'It's more conveniently located.'

'Alright, I'll do that. Thank you.'

'Shut up.'

'Fine, I'll do that, too', John laughed softly. 'Do I get a homecoming kiss?'

'No.' _I never want you leave again so you'll never need a homecoming again. Don't leave me.  
_  
'_That's_ not fine.'

'Just this once', Sherlock muttered and pulled John in for a deep kiss. When they separated, John wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's back and rested his head on his chest.

'I missed you', he whispered and pressed his face into the soft scarf around Sherlock's neck.

'Of course you did. Now you need to rest your leg. Where do you want to be? Sofa? Bed?' he asked, holding on to John's waist.

'Hey, I can walk with the cane', John protested. 'I climbed up the stairs, didn't I? I'm not completely immobile.'

'Alright, have it your way. Don't call me when you need help.'

'Whom do I call then?'

'I don't care. Your mother? Harry? Mycroft? Anyone but me', he grumbled and took a few steps back.

John reached out for him and leaned hard on his cane, grimacing with effort. Sherlock's arm immediately shot out to hold him and pull him against his chest.

'I'll always need my Sherlock. You know that, don't you?' John asked quietly.

In response, a mouth closed over his and a whispered acknowledgement was breathed around his tongue. He had come home.

* * *

Once John was asleep, Sherlock closed the door quietly and started up his own laptop. Mycroft's team had armed it with their best security measures. He launched his Internet browser and searched for James Moriarty. The search results were inconclusive. He paused for a moment and then smirked as he logged into the MI-6 database with Mycroft's credentials. He would be found out but he'd ask Mummy to smooth things over. This was for John.

The MI-6 search was much more informative and Sherlock read about James Moriarty late into the night. He thought back to the Ivey case and a chilling smile crossed his hard features in the glow of the laptop. He ran a few more Google searches, and an hour later he had his answers. It all made sense.

* * *

The next morning, John awoke alone in Sherlock's bed. He assumed Sherlock was on one of his I-am-in-the-middle-of-a-case-so-I-won't-sleep binges and had not slept the entire night but was surprised to see he was stretched out on the sofa. John ruffled his hair lovingly and let him sleep.

Sherlock awoke two hours later and headed straight for his bedroom. He emerged ten minutes later, showered and dressed in a natty gray suit.

'Do you want to eat something? I've made lasagna', John said, standing close to Sherlock. He tilted his head up hopefully and swallowed his disappointment when Sherlock held him by the shoulders, pressed a hurried kiss to his forehead and crossed the room towards the door.

'I will be late.'

'Can I help in any way?'

'No. You need to rest.'

'It'll give me something to do.'

'No. This time I'll be more effective alone.'

'Oh, okay. You know best.'

Sherlock nodded and left the flat. John settled down for a day of telly-watching and reading. It was nine p.m. when John sent Sherlock a quick text which received no response, ate dinner and waited. When Sherlock had not returned at midnight, John turned in. The following morning, Sherlock was once again stretched out on the couch.

This day was an echo of the day before. Sherlock left the flat in the morning, John spent the day alone, ate dinner alone, waited for Sherlock and then turned in at midnight. Alone. Sherlock had not said much while John was in hospital and since John returned to the flat, he had not spoken to or touched John much. John couldn't be sure if it was just his imagination but a subtle distance seemed to have crept up between them; it was not something he could put a finger on and definitively call out as the moment it happened. But something had changed. He caught Sherlock staring at his cane and his cast when he thought John wasn't looking; there was an edge of bitterness to the anger in Sherlock's gaze. John began to entertain the devastating possibility that Sherlock had begun to resent him.

* * *

While John stayed home, Sherlock visited Dame Amelia Kenilworth at the Kenilworth mansion in Notting Hill. A butler led him to a stately drawing room where Amelia waited for him.

'Mr. Holmes', she said, extending a hand.

'Thank you for seeing me, madam. I won't take much of your time.'

'I was told you are helping with the investigation into my son-in-law's death. Thank you.'

'That is actually one of the reasons I am here. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.'

'Not at all. Please, sit down. I'll have some coffee and sandwiches brought in.' She looked at her butler who nodded respectfully and disappeared down a hallway.

Sherlock waited till they were alone before saying, 'I want to ask you about Daniel Trevor.'

'What', she froze.

'I'm afraid I must be blunt, Dame Amelia, as I do not have the luxury of time. My partner, the person most important to me, has been the victim of physical injury and has now been threatened with death. I will do whatever it takes to eliminate that threat, with or without your assistance. However, I would rather you cooperated because this also has a bearing on James Ivey's case.'

Dame Amelia stiffened in her seat. 'You are certain that your inquiries are connected with James' death?'

'I am positive.'

'Alright, you may ask me your questions. Should your inquiry become objectionable, I will terminate our interview at once.'

'Very well. You met and consorted with Daniel Trevor for a few years while you were at the University of Melbourne.'

'Yes.'

'You had a son out of wedlock with Daniel. He is also named James.'

'Where are you getting your information, Mr. Holmes? It is inaccurate.'

'Your son has a condition called heterochromia iridis, different coloured irises. He has one blue eye and one green eye. A recessive gene causes blue and green irises, recessive in that both parents have to have that gene. Your husband, Sir Basil, has brown eyes. Daniel Trevor, on the other hand, has blue eyes. You show traces of heterochromia iridis, which is also a hereditary condition. You left Melbourne rather suddenly and your son was born very soon after your marriage to Sir Basil, indicating that you were already pregnant when you got married. You must have become pregnant around two months before you left Melbourne. Unless you had other lovers, it stands to reason that Daniel Trevor is the biological father of your son.'

Dame Amelia drew in a sharp breath and nodded slowly.

'Thank you, madam. That is all I wished to confirm. I have taken up enough of your time.' He rose to his feet. 'I'll see myself out.'

'You'll do no such thing, Mr. Holmes. You come to me and you reveal something about my past known to fewer than five living souls. So you will now do me the courtesy of sitting down and telling me what exactly is going on.'

Sherlock sat back down.

'Have you spoken to Daniel?' she asked.

'I have, but not about this. He doesn't know about your son, does he?'

'No, he does not. It was my father's decision to bring me back to London. He found out about my pregnancy. Daniel and I loved each other but he was not considered our equal socially and I would never be allowed to marry him. But I refused to give up my child. My father essentially… brokered a deal with the Kenilworth family. Basil and I would be married, I would get to keep my child and the Ivanhoe Group would receive an investment of one billion pounds.'

'Your son and his stepfather have never got on.'

'How do you know that?'

'He's using your maiden surname these days. Moriarty.'

'Basil never cared for James but Penelope loves him and he dotes on his little sister. He visits her regularly in hospital.'

'It's astonishing how much of one's private life is actually very public. There are scores of pictures of Penelope and your son on the Internet and just a handful of him and Sir Basil. Even at functions they attended together, father and son rarely appear in the same frame. Clearly there is no love lost between the two men. He also resented her husband for carrying on indiscriminate dalliances with women in high society.'

'How do you know all this?'

'There are even more paparazzi pictures of your son-in-law with his many conquests.'

'Should I fear you, Mr. Holmes? Are you dangerous?'

'I mean you no harm, madam. I am inherently inquisitive and, at the current time, extremely motivated to keep my partner safe. Your son, however, is very dangerous.'

'You'll want to be very careful what you say next.'

'Your son murdered his brother-in-law.'

'What?'

'I believe he is also the man responsible for Penelope losing the use of both her legs.'

'You believe?'

'I have yet to prove that definitively but I suspect he arranged for the car accident, not expecting Penelope to be in the car with her husband. She was scheduled to be in Paris the day of the accident but postponed her trip at the last minute.'

'How do you know all this?'

'I have my sources.' _Thank you, Mycroft. _'Your son has been very active in the past months, madam. And he has recruited Penelope to his needs.'

'You're making some _very_ serious allegations, Mr. Holmes. I will sue you for defamation if anything you say turns out to be untrue.'

'Are you aware that twenty-eight million pounds were recently misappropriated from Ivanhoe Financial Group?'

'My husband does not involve me in financial matters related to our firm.'

'I was called in to investigate. That money hopped across more than a dozen accounts before it ultimately landed in a joint account held in the names of Penelope Ivey and Majority Mares which is listed, in the account registration, as a horse-breeding company specialising in female equines. The company is a shell. It does not exist. If you enjoy word games, "Majority Mares" is an anagram for "James Moriarty". Curious, wouldn't you say?'

'Oh!' Dame Amelia exclaimed softly.

'Furthermore, James Ivey's life insurance was to be paid to his sole beneficiary, Penelope who, it is not a stretch to surmise, would have somehow transferred at least part of the money to her brother.'

'You're reaching, Mr. Holmes.'

'Am I? Over the past three years, she has made regular withdrawals from her joint account and deposits of identical amounts have shown up in your son's singly-held account within a week. Her only other account with Ivanhoe Financial Group is held jointly with her late husband. That is why she asked for the insurance payout to be transferred to her joint account with her brother.'

'You are implying that Penelope sanctioned her husband's murder.'

'Do you deny that Penelope resented him for his blatant affairs? He was drunk behind the wheel the night of their accident. It is logical to conclude that she blamed him for her paralysis.'

Dame Amelia joined her hands in her lap. 'She despised him before her accident and absolutely loathed him after. Had it not been for their pre-nuptial agreement which would greatly benefit him in the event of divorce, she would have ended their marriage to him years ago.'

'I was called in by New Scotland Yard to investigate his death and it was evident that he had been murdered. As you know, Royal Albion Insurance has refused to pay the insurance money until the investigation is concluded. Very soon thereafter, my partner was injured in a hit-and-run accident and I received an email threatening his life if I didn't stay out of the Ivey case. James Moriarty is in need of money, a lot of it, and he's running out of ways to get it. I wouldn't care if he hadn't harmed or threatened my partner but he has made it personal.'

'I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Holmes. We are estranged. I don't know anything about his work and cannot begin to venture an opinion on where he might get his money.'

'I know where he is looking for his money. Your son has gone after his father.'

* * *

A shift in the mattress awoke John in the middle of the night and he opened his eyes just enough to see Sherlock sitting on the bed beside him and running his hand down John's cast.

'Hey', John said.

Sherlock started and pulled his hand back.

'It's okay', he said softly. 'You can touch. In fact, I'd like it if you touched me', John sounded wistful. 'I feel like we haven't spoken in a long time. If I were the insecure kind, I'd think you were avoiding me.'

'But you're not. Go to sleep', Sherlock said and rose to his feet. _Forgive me, John. I am to blame for this. It should have been me in that accident.  
_  
John reached out to hold his hand. 'Sit with me awhile? Tell me what you've been doing. Is there something I could do?'

'I told you, I'll be more effective alone. You are my pressure point. Worrying about you will only distract me and I cannot afford to any mistakes.'

'Oh- ', John dropped his hand.

'Go to sleep, John.'

'Are you eating, Sherlock?'

'Stop worrying about me. Get yourself well first.'

'Sherlock- have- uh…have I done something to upset you? There's something you're not telling me. You said you have no secrets from me.'

'Go to sleep, John. I have to work.'

Later the same night, Sherlock again tiptoed into his bedroom to check on John and but this time, he found the bed empty. John had moved back into his bedroom. Sherlock collapsed onto his empty bed, weary and troubled, his face buried in the pillow John had been using, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

They met again at the breakfast table in the morning.

_You didn't have to move. Don't you see that I cannot afford sentiment right now? I won't ever let you get hurt again, John. Please forgive me. It's because of me that you came to harm like this. Forgive me_, Sherlock thought, looking at John. 'Why did you move? Your room is farther away', he asked aloud.

_If you wanted me to leave, why didn't you just tell me? _John sadly asked Sherlock in his mind. 'It seemed to be the only way to get you to sleep in your bed. And it worked', John laughed bitterly. 'Anyway, I'm better now and it'll do me good to get some exercise around the flat.'

* * *

'Is there something I should know, Sherlock?' John asked from the couch, watching Sherlock enter the flat that night.

'About what?'

'Victor Trevor.'

Sherlock froze.

_Oh god, you didn't want me to know about him. _'He came by to see you earlier this evening. He tried reaching you on your mobile but your number seems to have changed. I couldn't extract it from my phone- it asked for a password.'

'One-eight-one-six.'

'One-eight-one-six. Oh, eighteen-sixteen. Kubla Khan', John nodded once, thinking back to the serial killer case he had serendipitously helped solve. He pursed his lips. 'So yeah, he said to tell you that he'll be waiting for you in his Belgravia pad.'

'Did he say anything else?'

John blew out a mirthless chuckle. 'He congratulated me. Us. He seemed to think we are together.'

'We _are _together.'

'Are we, really? In case you haven't noticed, it feels like we've been living separate lives since I returned from hospital, Sherlock.'

'Oh, don't get all ordinary, John! I'm not given to pointless displays of sentiment, you know that.'

'Well, I hate to break it to you but love _is_ sentiment! When you said you loved me, you were _displaying sentiment_!' he choked out. 'And something like that can never be pointless!'

Sherlock pulled John into an embrace but John's arms stayed at his side. They stayed like that for a long moment, Sherlock pressing John against him and John standing limply, breaking inside, feeling the pain in his heart wrap itself around his throat and choke any words he might want to sling at Sherlock. The anguish in Sherlock's heart coursed through his arms which tightened around John, wanting to keep him safe.

'Will you trust me for the next few weeks and not ask me any questions? Please?'

It was a few long seconds before John nodded wordlessly against Sherlock's chest.

'John…'

'If that is what you want…'

'That is what I want.'

'Then I will trust you. But I do have one question.'

'Alright.'

'Is there something between you and Victor?'

'Why do you ask?'

'He seemed surprised that I was surprised to see him and then he was definitely hedging when I asked him why he was here. Almost like he wanted to know what I knew.'

'There's nothing between me and Victor that should concern you.'

John turned his face, unable to maintain eye contact. 'You know these things happen, right?' He hated that his voice faltered. 'I _will_ understand. Your first is always special…'

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders. 'Look at me. Is _your_ first still special to you, John? Is that what you're trying to say?'

'No! No, of course not! I just- I don't know why you won't touch me anymore!'

'I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have!'

'_You_ didn't hurt me, Sherlock! And you _won't_ hurt me!'

'No, John. I'm in the middle of a case and I _cannot_ afford to be distracted by sex.'

'I'm not talking about _sex_, Sherlock. I just need _you_! I want to _touch_ you', John said in a soft, broken voice. 'You are so near yet you feel unreachable. I wish I had never met with this bloody accident because it's taking you away from me. I'm losing you and I miss you. Don't shut me out, please.'

'God, I'm not shutting you out! I just need some time, John. Will you give me that?'

John closed his eyes in resignation. 'Of course, I'll give you anything you want', he murmured. 'Good night.'

'John, wait.'

John looked up hopefully.

'I think you should take a vacation, get away from London for a bit. Maybe you could visit Harry or your mother.'

John's heart sank. Just when it seemed that the ground was reforming under his feet, he felt it all falling away again. 'Is London a euphemism for you?'

'No.'

'Then why? I told you I'll trust you. I'll keep out of your way.'

'I just thought you'd like to have company during the day. It won't be as mind-numbing as sitting alone in the flat all day. Just a thought', he shrugged.

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. A muscle jumped in his jaw and the equanimity in his set features was belied by the raw ache in his unguarded eyes. He knew Sherlock could read every little nuance in his expressions and immediately looked away. Sherlock pressed his fists to his eyes. _I will find the man who did this to you and when I do, I will __**end**__ him. That means I have to solve Daniel Trevor's case but I cannot allow you to be involved. I will never let you be harmed again!_

'Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate your concern for me. I will consider it.'

'I'll go to see Victor tomorrow.'

'Yeah, alright.' John limped across the floor towards his bedroom when he caught Sherlock staring at his cane again. _Yes, I am damaged now. You've found something distasteful in me, after all. You want me to leave. Why not? Victor's back._


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

_'__I'll go to see Victor tomorrow.' _

_ 'Yeah, alright.' John limped across the floor towards his bedroom when he caught Sherlock staring at his cane again. Yes, I am damaged now. You've found something distasteful in me, after all. You want me to leave. Why not? Victor's back._

* * *

It was a Tuesday, five days since John returned from hospital.

Sherlock had already left the flat when John hobbled into the kitchen the next morning so he ate breakfast alone, detesting the prospect of another sedentary day of reading or telly-watching. After the previous night's exchange with Sherlock, the flat had begun to feel oppressive. He needed to get out. _Fuck it_, he thought and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered to his bathroom, showered, dressed and stepped out of the flat.

Leaning on his cane, he paused on the street, feeling the fresh air cut his cheeks and nudge his gloomy spirit. A chilly zephyr ruffled his hair, playful and pregnant with rain that threatened to fall at any moment. The monochromatic city appeared to be painted with a broad brush of gray – gray skies and gray roads enveloped in a bubble of gray air. The heavy dullness sank into his skin like a deep melancholy. Above him, however, the clouds were slowly parting and giving way to blue hope whereas inside him, the gray was turning into a black gloom.

His feet took him north on Baker Street, robotically crossed the Outer Circle, then reached the Inner Circle and walked further north on the circular path until they stopped before the Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park. The afternoon performance of "To Kill a Mockingbird" was scheduled to begin in an hour so he stood in line, bought himself a ticket and then waited.

His first thought when the riveting performance concluded was that Sherlock would have been mesmerised by it. The throng of exiting audience members filed out through the two exit doors and John waited in his seat, regretting all the plays and musical recitals he could have enjoyed with Sherlock but had pushed him to attend with Victor Trevor. Victor, who was now back in London and whom Sherlock was meeting for reasons he would not reveal to John. _Victor, the first man to whom Sherlock gave his body. Why does that knowledge hurt me like this? Why now? Is it because I might mean nothing to him at all? _

Loathsome feelings of doubt gnawed at his heart and a referred pang of pain shot up his ankle. Sherlock had said to trust him and he had said he would. He closed his eyes. When the crowds had thinned, he struggled to his feet and slowly exited the amphitheatre through the Theatre Exit Gate. Not wanting to return to Baker Street just yet, he boarded the first double-decker bus that arrived at the nearby bus stop, not caring where it would take him. When that bus reached its terminus, he got on another bus. When he alighted, he found himself at Westminster Bridge, looking up at the London Eye. Ten minutes later, he had bought a ticket and was standing in line to be directed to a capsule.

His relatively empty pod slowly approached the zenith and the ascent brought with it an oppressive wave of claustrophobia. He had stood here between Sherlock and Harry and he had been…happy. He closed his eyes for the rest of the ride and waited, nauseated, at the capsule door, ready to bolt as soon as it opened. A strong arm came to his aid and grasped his elbow when he nearly lost his footing climbing down from the capsule. 'You okay, mate?' he heard a stranger ask him and hurriedly mumbled his thanks before limping away towards the closest bus stop.

Another bus ride later, he stood outside 221B Baker Street. The day had passed in a blur. He still was not ready to go home but it was getting dark and he was feeling the effects of not having eaten all day. Groaning against the effort, he limped up the stairs to the flat. The door was shut and as was his wont, he knocked and turned the handle. The door swung open slowly and John froze. Sherlock stood facing Victor and their heads snapped up, shocked to see him standing in the doorway.

'John! What are you doing back?' Sherlock's voice had an edge of annoyance to it, as if he had been found out.

'It's almost seven, Sherlock. I've been out all day. I'm tired. I'll just eat something and turn in. I won't disturb you both. I'll eat in my bedroom', he said dejectedly.

'No! You shouldn't be here.'

'What?'

'You weren't supposed to be here. Just go-' Sherlock pleaded with him.

'Sher-'

'Just leave, John! I don't have time to talk to you about this now. And don't come back until I tell you to. I don't want you here. Go!'

He saw both Sherlock and Victor looking at his injured ankle and then his chest and then his face. The movement of their eyes appeared to be synchronised.

John broke. _Don__'__t push me away like this, Sherlock. Please, don__'__t do this. I love you. I love you. _He lifted his uninjured foot to take a step forward but Sherlock took a reflexive step back in the same instant. John's insides crumbled. He pulled his foot back, not daring to cross the invisible line Sherlock had so clearly drawn between them. 'Wh- where do I go, Sherlock?' his voice quivered.

'I don't care. Just go anywhere that's not here! Please, just leave us!' Sherlock tore his eyes away from him and stared at the kitchen and shut his eyes in mild annoyance. Then he looked at John again, waiting.

When John continued to stand petrified in the doorway, Sherlock turned to Victor, pulled his face down and kissed his lips. 'Will you go _now_?' Sherlock asked.

Disbelieving shock very slowly dissolved into devastating cognisance and John's eyes stung. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his ankle causing his leg to buckle and he grasped the door frame to brace himself. Fragments from his splintering heart pierced his chest and his head dropped in acceptance of Sherlock's decision. 'Yeah, ok', he said softly to himself as he relinquished hope. Sherlock had made it very clear whom he was choosing and it was not John. Pain contorted his lips as he turned around to slowly climb down the stairs, one step at a time, clutching the bannister hard.

* * *

For the second time that day, John walked to Regent's Park, more alone now than he was that morning. He had been sitting on a bench there for nearly half an hour, stunned and suffering, not noticing the darkening skies herald the incipient eventide when a distant sound penetrated his bewildered anguish and he realised it was his phone playing a violin tune. Peering through his stupor at the Caller ID, he read 'Bumblebee'. _God, no!_ Sherlock had saved his number under that alias in the hospital, when he still loved John. Or perhaps that had been a farce; perhaps Sherlock had already started to fall out of love with John by then because, less than a week later, he had kissed Victor in John's presence and asked him to leave the flat. A sickening sense of betrayal washed over John, leaving him shaking with anger and bottomless sorrow.

Clutching the phone in his hands, he waited for the torturous ringing to stop. A few minutes later, the voicemail icon flashed on the phone and the memory of Sherlock's voice burned his thoughts. Deliberately ignoring the message, John called the phone company and cancelled his account. He slipped the back cover off the phone, pulled out the SIM card and dropped it into his pocket. Sherlock wouldn't be able to trace his phone using GPS if it was not active on the mobile network. _Huh, no reason he would care to do that now. Victor's back. _

He stopped by a T-Mobile store to pay cash for a new pay-as-you-go SIM card and borrowed a pair of scissors from the girl at the register. Cutting the original SIM card into small pieces, he held his palm open over the dustbin and watched the metallic slivers float down into the pile of trash. A cynical and self-deprecating laugh escaped him as he drew poetic parallels with his emotions – the SIM card signifying his heart and the scissors symbolising Sherlock's sharp obliteration of it. One destroyed SIM card resulted in three casualties – he lost Sherlock's new mobile number which he had not memorised, Sherlock's message which he had not retrieved and finally Sherlock himself, whom he evidently had never merited.

Two hours later, John sat in a hotel room he had booked for one night. He again paid with cash for fear that Sherlock would track his credit card expenses but then laughed at his fallacy. _I needn't hide from someone who's not looking for me. There's only one thing to do – leave London, leave Sherlock, like he asked me to in the first place._

On any other day, he would have complained about the hard mattress of the hotel bed but today, it felt oddly… consistent with everything else that was happening to him. Peace eluded him for a long time so he lay back, staring at the paint peeling on the walls, the creaking fan hanging from the ceiling, the smudges on the curtains. At some point, sleep overcame him and when he awoke the next morning, he showered, went to a nearby café for coffee and a sandwich and then took a bus to Baker Street. He waited till he saw Sherlock leave the flat and then let himself in.

A medium-sized suitcase was sufficient to hold his clothes and books and his CDs fit into his shoulder bag as most of his music was in digital form on his phone. The laptop was practically Sherlock's, considering he used it almost all the time so he left that on the writing desk in the living room. He neatly folded the navy blue Fendi jumper Sherlock had bought him and placed it in a plastic bag on the laptop. Finally, he wrote a cheque for the amount of the rent he owed Sherlock who had flatly refused to take rent from him when they became lovers. A half-used bottle of his shampoo was still in Sherlock's bathroom. He dropped it into the garbage. Casting one last look around the flat to make sure it was cleared of all his belongings and any indication that he had lived there for years, he left Baker Street for the last time. His eyes were dry and his heart barren as he headed back to his hotel room. He was cutting ties with surgical precision.

On the way, he stopped by a bank to withdraw cash for incidentals while he planned his next steps. Even after the thousand-pound withdrawal, the consolidated balance on the receipt handed to him by the teller shocked him. It was several thousand pounds higher than he expected. He hadn't checked his accounts for months so he asked her for a statement of his transactions against his account for the past year and reviewed the statement on his way out of the bank. The account summary showed his singly-held account and another account that was not known to him. It was jointly held by him with Sherlock as a secondary holder. Scanning the transaction list, he saw recurring deposits of three hundred pounds to the joint account within two days of a withdrawal of the same amount from his individual account. Sherlock had been transferring his rent money to this account. John stormed back into the bank as quickly as his leg would allow.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

It was a Tuesday, five days since John returned from hospital.

Sherlock had told John he would see Victor that day but decided to meet Lestrade first. John was still asleep when he left the flat. He had finished his business at NSY and was on his way to Belgravia to meet Victor when he received a call from him to return to Baker Street. He asked the taxi driver to turn around.

Climbing up the stairs, he was filled with a vague sense of foreboding. The door was open and he saw Victor standing by the window, looking to his left at a man in a suit seated on the sofa, pointing a Walther at Victor. The man wore spectacles with a silver-purple frame and had one green and one blue eye.

'James Moriarty', Sherlock said.

'Well done, Mister Consulting Detective. Well done, indeed! You're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?'

Sherlock ignored the jibe and turned to Victor. 'John?'

'He's not here. The door was open when I arrived.'

'Your "partner" is out and about in the city, taking in the sights, watching plays, riding the bus, bemoaning his injuries, I would imagine.'

'You should have left John out of this.'

'I would have, if you had kept your nose out of things that are not your business. I warned you, Mister Holmes. You didn't listen. Why? Why must you solve every little puzzle that comes your way?'

'It's what I do. It's what told me that _you _are in a lot of trouble, "Jimmy".'

'Got that from Sebastian, didn't you? The fool used to call me that. He was so needy. Like a teenager.'

'So you killed him.'

'He found out things he should never have known.'

'He was your conduit to Daniel Trevor.'

'Very good! What else have you found out, Mister Holmes? You're going to die. You might as well entertain Mister Trevor and me. Dazzle us with your brilliance one last time', Moriarty mocked and leaned against the backrest, lifting one leg to rest its ankle on the other knee with the confidence of a man in control.

Sherlock reached inside his coat pocket.

'Tsk tsk, Mister Holmes. You don't want to do that. I have snipers with their sights trained on you', he said, pointing to a red dot that danced on Sherlock's chest. He held up his phone. 'They can hear everything we are saying. If you do anything that is even slightly suspicious, you will be killed in an instant.'

Unseen by Moriarty, Sherlock pressed a button on the phone, dropped it back into his pocket and pulled his hand out. 'So you have the KDM working for you now?'

'I needed the money. You're in my way. They offered to help.'

'You bit off more than you can chew, Moriarty.'

'Explain.'

So Sherlock explained, his delivery rapid and piercing. 'You went freelance last year because you weren't satisfied with liaising on a relatively small scale for national defence contractors. You wanted more, much more. Whereas your contracts used to range in the hundreds of thousands, you wanted to deal in millions. Your contacts in the arms market had grown to a level where you felt confident to strike out on your own and directly supply terrorist splinter cells and rogue nations with weapons for a hefty margin. You cut out the middle man but gave up your anonymity in the process. You're now known to the leaders of these terrorist groups. Big mistake in retrospect, wouldn't you say? The KDM gave you a massive advance for a consignment of three thousand AK-47 rifles but when your smuggled weapons shipment was seized by the authorities, you had to return their advance with interest. You had no money of your own, so you went after your brother-in-law's insurance money. Penelope hated him and didn't care if he died. Their marriage was over a long time ago.'

'James Ivey was _scum_, a waste of flesh and bone', Moriarty snarled. 'He didn't deserve Penelope. Surely your inquiries into his past revealed his questionable sexual proclivities. He cheated on her publicly, didn't care for her and their children. You probably don't know that he also abused her. He deserved to die. She and I talked about dispensing with him. She knew about my need for funding and agreed to help.'

'It was a mutually beneficial agreement. You would arrange his accident and she would give you his insurance money. It would have worked well if Penelope were not in the car with him. Does she know you're responsible for the loss of her legs?'

A muscle jumped in Moriarty's jaw and his hand tightened around his gun. 'She was not supposed to be there!' he rasped.

'I didn't think so, because she'd never have agreed to give you the insurance money when you killed him yourself.'

'I was careful with that.'

'_Too_ careful', Sherlock scoffed. 'If you wanted to make it seem like he self-asphyxiated, you might have thought to wank him off and leave his semen on the floor. And blood, too.'

'You see how much trouble your meddlesome ways have caused? To me, to you, to Doctor Watson? NSY had ruled his death a suicide. Everything was going according to plan until you showed up. _You_ are the reason Doctor Watson was in an accident.'

Sherlock's eyes turned to steel. _And that is why I will __**eliminate **__you_. 'When the insurance money didn't arrive, you were running out of time with the KDM. So you went after your father.'

'That's ridiculous. My father would never give me money. He detests me, a sentiment I return with interest.'

'I mean your biological father.'

'What?'

'Victor is your half-brother.'

'What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock?' Victor asked.

'James Moriarty is the _bastard_ son of your father and Amelia Moriarty, now known to the world as Dame Amelia Kenilworth. She kept her baby, unbeknownst to your father, Victor.' He turned to Moriarty. 'You know enough about biology to question your paternity. You also must have looked into your mother's past and found the same things I did – her time at Melbourne University, her relationship with Daniel Trevor, the timing of her marriage and your birth. It's not difficult to put together. So you decided to go after Daniel Trevor.'

'Very good, Mister Holmes. You are every bit as good as the papers say.'

Sherlock was not finished. 'You needed access to original Transfer Authorisation papers, with the ANZ watermark and other identifying features or the transfer would never have been approved. Moran was a perfect find.'

'He truly was! A pretty boy, passionate in bed and a very new employee of ANZ Bank London. His co-workers didn't know him well enough to notice if he went missing.'

'Updating his voicemail message was an artistic touch', Sherlock granted.

'Wasn't it?' Moriarty asked with a chilling smile. 'But he started asking too many questions. He had to go.'

'So you murdered him too. People seem to die around you.'

'That's what people do! They die!'

'You murdered Sebastian Moran, took his place at the conference. Your father didn't know you existed. He thought you were Moran. You intermingled the three pages of the Transfer Authorisation with the MoU and got Daniel Trevor's signature on the papers. What you didn't know was that the account was under Compliance Review. A big mistake.'

'That was my only mistake.'

'Not only.'

Moriarty's lips quirked upwards inquiringly.

'You threatened John', Sherlock's deliberate words conveyed a dispassionate guarantee of retribution.

Moriarty's phone crackled. One of his snipers was speaking. 'Watson's on his way.'

Moriarty shot a wicked look at Sherlock and Victor. 'How timely! I think we should put on a show for the good doctor. How about you kiss your friend while he watches? I know about your past, Mister Holmes. You got busy with my little brother here, didn't you?'

Sherlock's fists clenched.

'Who doesn't enjoy a little ménage à trois?' Moriarty continued with a manic smile. 'I'm going to step into the kitchen while you explain things to your doctor. Show him how much you care for him by planting a wet, sloppy kiss on your ex-lover. I'd like to see that. I'd like _him_ to see that. Don't forget – my snipers _will_ shoot your doctor if you don't. Shoot to kill.'

With that, Moriarty stole into the kitchen and waited as John came up to the doorway.

'John! What are you doing back?' Sherlock's voice betrayed his anxiety.

'It's almost seven in the evening, Sherlock. I've been out all day. I'm tired. I'll just eat something and turn in. I won't disturb you both. I'll eat in my bedroom.'

'No! You shouldn't be here.' _Your life is in danger.  
_  
'What?'

'You weren't supposed to be here. Just go-' Sherlock pleaded with him. _Please go. I'll explain everything later._

'Sher-'

'Just leave, John! I don't have time to talk to you about this now. And don't come back until I tell you to. I don't want you here. Go!'

Both Sherlock and Victor followed the path of a red dot from John's injured ankle to his chest and then to his forehead. _I__'__m sorry, John. I can__'__t say anything or you will be killed. Forgive me. I know I__'__m hurting you but I will explain everything. Please go.  
_  
He could see John disintegrate bit by bit and it broke him. _I love you. I love you and I won't let you be harmed again. Forgive me, John. But I have to finish this so that you won't ever be threatened again. _John lifted his uninjured foot to take a step forward but Sherlock took a step back in the same instant. _No! Don__'__t come in. Just don__'__t! I'll explain everything but just go! _His own heart bled as he watched John being devastated before his eyes.

'Wh- where do I go, Sherlock?' John's timorous words sounded lost.

'I don't care. Just go anywhere that's not here! Please, just leave us!' _They__'__ll__shoot you if you stay!  
_  
Sherlock's eyes snapped to the kitchen where Moriarty, unbeknownst to John, was observing the proceedings with a menacing smile. He held up his phone, shook it, pointed his index and middle fingers to his temple, simulating the barrel of a gun, and puckered his lips.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He had lost this round. He turned to Victor, pulled his face down and kissed his lips. 'Will you go _now_?' Sherlock asked John. _Trust me, John. Please trust me. I know I__'__m hurting you but it's because I love you. I'll explain everything later but right now, I need you to be safe. Please go!_

John remained at the door, staring at them in utter disbelief. Sherlock held his gaze, begging for his forgiveness, and saw comprehension and heartrending acceptance in those blue eyes. There was immense dignity in John's grieving stance. Then his head dropped and he nodded, muttered his defeat not looking at Sherlock or Victor, not wanting them to see the agony wracking his body and his heart. He held on to the door frame and limped around to climb down the stairs. A short while later, Sherlock heard the main door open and close. He let out the breath he had been holding.

Moriarty stepped back into the living room. 'I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Mister Holmes. Poor Doctor Watson', he laughed. 'If it weren't for you, I would be done with this nasty business. But I tire of these games. I think I shall kill you now.'

'You could but that won't help you. You're finished, Moriarty.' Sherlock's cold gaze reflected the iron in his voice.

'Am I, now?'

'Everything we have just said has been relayed to the British Secret Service. You have confessed to planning and executing the accident in which Penelope Ivey was paralysed. You have confessed to the murders of James Ivey and Sebastian Moran. You have confessed to framing Daniel Trevor for a crime he did not commit. That's quite an impressive list of crimes, wouldn't you say? And you might want to check your right shoulder.'

Moriarty looked down and saw three steady red dots on his shoulder.

'That's the British government. They _will_ shoot you but won't kill you, of course. They will take you alive because you have enough information to single-handedly dismantle the KDM and you'll take their protection because you have no money to repay your advance. You're out of options, James Moriarty', his lips parted with the soulless smile of a hangman.

The red dots on Sherlock and Victor disappeared. A minute later, the main door slammed open and two masked gunmen stormed up the stairs and into the flat. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Moriarty darted to his left so that he was behind a wall and out of the line of sight of MI-6's snipers. The masked men lunged at Moriarty and his Walther was knocked from his hand but not before he fired a shot at one of the men. The other man punched him in the jaw and ribs, grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the flat.

'Your father will be exonerated', Sherlock said, not looking at Victor.

'And John is safe.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

Victor's eyes were narrowed as he studied Sherlock's set features. 'The snipers wouldn't have thought to come get him. You planted that suggestion.'

'He murdered two people and so many more with his arms deals.'

'The KDM will _kill_ him.'

Sherlock's emotionless eyes betrayed none of the relief surging through him when he said, 'He shouldn't have gone after John.'

'I hope John knows how much you love him.'

Sherlock exhaled miserably. 'Right now, he thinks I love you.'


End file.
